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LOYS, 

LORD BERRESFORD. 







THE “DUCHESS.” 



PHILADELPHIA ; 

FRANKLIN NEWS COMPANY. 
1887. 

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LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 

BY THE “DUCHESS.” 

CHAPTER I. 

Sir John Blake is the lord and master of Vesey Court, and 
Vesey Court itself is one of the most picturesquely beautiful 
places in the whole of our broad England. Sir John is one of 
the finest, freshest, most hot-tempered, and most forgiving old 
gentlemen in Christendom. Not so very old, either, in spite of 
his sixty years, being hale and hearty, with sufficient pluck and 
energy for half a dozen men, and having good spirits enough 
and as much true Irish blood in his veins as is calculated to 
keep him young for full ten years to come — to say nothing of the 
incessant turmoils in which he finds himself perpetually im- 
mersed through the machinations of his only daughter, the 
reigning tyrant. Miss Theo Blake. 

Miss Blake is extremely lovely, though by no means showy, 
being neither very tall nor very much undersized, but rather a 
happy medium between the two, and having a figure that the 
Venus de Medicis herself might well have been proud of. She 
has large, dark, deep gray eyes, peculiarly handsome, which 
have a habit of becoming suddenly black as night when their 
owner is excited or pained in aay way, or happens to be in the 
act of asserting her rights — a privilege very frequently claimed 
by Miss Blake — and is also possessed of magnificent fair brown 
hair, fine and silky, which she always wears in a fashion of her 
own, and never changes. But the chief peculiarity about her 
face is its utter want of color, not the faintest tinge of pink 
shining through the fair clearness of her skin. This, in some 
girls, would probably mar the effect of whatever beauty they 
might boast, making them at times appear even ugly, but in 
Miss Blake it is her principal charm. 


4 


LOYS, LORD BERRESRORD, 


Besides her loveliness, Theo has particularly fascinating man- 
ners, a curious mixture of childishness and wisdom, self-possession 
and extreme shyness, — a combination which in her case is gen- 
erally acknowledged to be most infinitely bewitching ; she has 
also a rather coquettish manner of raising her eyes to those of 
any of her admirers with an expression in them, half pleading 
and half frightened, that does considerable execution in more 
ways than one, taking the poor victims’ hearts by storm, and 
otherwise committing fearful havoc in the most innocent manner 
possible. In fact, there is little use in denying or concealing 
any longer that Theo is a confirmed flirt, not so much, perhaps, 
from practice as from nature. 

She is also rather passionate and perverse, with the strongest 
inclination in the world to gain her own point, and has coaxed 
and tormented and frightened everybody from her birth upwards 
into granting her that point, until she has at length become both 
the terror and admiration of every soul in the establishment, 
from Sir John himself down to the lowest stable-boy. 

Her father and she being in the full enjoyment of precisely 
the same temperament, it naturally will occur now and then 
that they have slight differences of opinion on various subjects ; 
but in all of these it is usually Theo’s share to come off vic- 
torious, as the following little scene will prove. 

The dining-room at Vesey is very handsome and ancient, and 
well lit both with lamps and the light of the glowing wood fire, 
near which, on one side, sits Sir John in a huge arm-chair, while 
Miss Blake reclines cosily in another directly opposite, — her 
thoughts apparently busily employed as she stares with earnest 
eyes into the blazing wood. 

At this moment the door opens, and George, Miss Blake’s 
own groom, says, in a hesitating voice, and with rather a nervous 
manner : 

Please, Sir John, may I go home this evening and stay 
to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

** Certainly not ! ** thunders Sir John. **How do you suppose 
my horses are to be seen to, sir, while you are enjoying yourself 
dll over the country ? I did not employ you to spend your time 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. § 

at home, did I ? This is at least the sixth time within three 
months that you have asked for a day, and ’* 

“ No, only three,” interposes Miss Blake; and I really 
think, papa, that you ought to allow ” 

“ Now, Theo,” interrupts her father, “ once for all I forbid 
you to interfere with me and my servants. I won’t have it ! 
George may go home if he wishes ; but, if he does, he may stay 
there.” 

“ No, he may not! ’’ says Theo, angrily. “ He takes care of 
‘Queen’ perfectly, and he is my groom, as you know; and I 
think I might be allowed some voice in the matter.” 

“ Not when your voice causes the most utter want of discipline 
in my yard ! ” 

“Well, really, papa, I wonder how you can be so savage,” 
breaks in Theo, vehemently; “and his poor mother dying, 
too.” 

“ What?” says Sir John, wheeling round. “ Is this true?” 

“Well, Sir John, she is not at all so well as we could wish,” 
George replies. 

“Then why the deuce, sir, did you not say so, at once, and 
not stand there like a fool?” says his irascible master. “Of 
course you can go 1 ” 

“Thank you, Sir John,” says George, casting a grateful look 
at Theo over his master’s head, and disappears, while Sir John 
turns again to the fire, his handsome old face very nearly as red 
as the blazing embers before him. Presently Theo says, in a 
meek, lady -like voice : 

“Are you forgetting my claret, papa dear?” 

“Theo,” answers her father, “you are an extremely wilful, 
undutiful child, and I think it might perhaps warn you and do 
you good if I dismissed George to-morrow ; but I believe the 

best plan will be to ” His eloquence and his “best plan” 

are here alike nipped in the bud, as Theo, springing with quick 
warm impulsiveness from her seat, goes over to his side, and, 
kneeling down, places two little tender arms around his neck, 
and raising a beautiful, half-penitent, half laughing face to his, 
says, softly : 


6 


L0\% LORD BERRESFORD, 


“ No, I won’t listen to your ‘ best plan,’ and I am not undiiti- 
ful ; hovv can you speak so unkindly to me, your own Theo?” 

It would have been an iron heart indeed that could have 
resisted Theo Blake just then, with her pretty, childish pleading, 
strengthened as it was by the earnest glances of the great gray 
eyes raised so lovingly to her father’s. Sir John, at all events, 
is not proof against the double fire, and forgives her, as he has 
forgiven her hundreds of times before, and as he will probably 
forgive her again before the night is ended, — even so far for- 
getting her unfilial conduct as to call her fondly, while he kisses 
her, “his own beautiful girl.” So, peace being once more 
restored, Theo draws her chair closer to his, and sits with her 
hand close clasped in Sir John’s, while they discuss their claret 
and the neighborhood together, conversing indiscriminately 
about the horses and dogs. Lady Harford’s ball and Tim 
Brierly’s cottage, the Savilles, the coming hunt, and — Claude 
Ruthyn. 

When the conversation comes to this latter point. Sir John 
becomes suddenly rather distrait and nervous, and looks as 
though he wanted particularly to say something, but does not 
know how to begin it. The fact is, he has had this morning a 
proposal for Theo’s hand from this identical Claude Ruthyn, 
and is more than commonly anxious to know what answer Theo 
is likely to give. 

This last suitor of Miss Blake’s is a clever, agreeable, and 
handsome young barrister, possessed of a large private income 
of his own, besides the fortune he is rapidly obtaining at the bar, 
who, having come down on a visit to his uncle, Mr. Saville, 
about three months before this story opens, had there met Miss 
Blake; and, that young lady having gone in for a very decided 
flirtation with him, the consequences were what might have 
been expected, — the popular young lawyer falling head, over 
ears in love with her, and coming to the settled conclusion that 
the world, without her for his wife would be a very dull place 
indeed. 

Matters having arrived at this crisis, he soon made up his 
mind ; and, coming down suddenly to Vesey that morning, took 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


7 


the old baronet unawares, stating his intentions and his deep, 
unchanging love for Theo, and begging Sir John, if possible, to 
try to gain Theo’s consent to the engagement. 

The old man, who, though shrinking with horror from the day 
when he must cease to be all in all to his idol, was too good a 
father to be blind to the* advantages of this offer, and seeing the 
man’s thorough and sincere love for his beautiful daughter, 
promised to do all in his power to forward the union, strictly on 
the condition, however, that he and Theo should not be 
separated by her marriage. London, he argued, was but one 
hour’s journey by rail from Vesey Court, and Ruthyn could well 
manage that every day : so, Claude having fully complied with 
his wishes* on this point, Sir John waits anxiously now a turn in 
the conversation that may serve his purpose, which the mention 
of Claude Ruthyn’ s name at last gives him. 

“Theo, my dear,” says Sir John, “who do you suppose was 
here to-day?” 

“George Pierrepont,” says Theo, promptly. 

“No,” answers her father; “try again, my dear.” 

“Captain Gesler?” jViiss Blake asks, less positively this time. 

“No,” replies Sir John again; “wrong a second time. I 
suppose,* as you cannot guess, I may as well te^ you — Mr. 
Ruthyn.” 

“ Really ! ” exclaims Theo. “ Dear me, is he staying so soon 
again at the rectory? Oh, what a pity I was not in to see him! 
— was it not?” 

“Yes,” returns her father, delightedly; “you like him, my 
darling? ” 

“Like him? I should rather think Ido — immensely. That 
is, you know, far better than any of the other men I know. He 
is so agreeable and clever, and says such nice little things to one.” 

“Well,” puts in her father, warmly, “he certainly has one of 
the warmest, truest hearts a man was ever blessed with.” And, 
Miss Blake making no reply to this, they both sit contemplating 
the fire and building imaginary castles in it for some little time. 
Presently Theo turns suddenly round, and, taking Sir John’s 
face between both her hands, says, suspiciously : 


s 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


“ You have something on your mind, papa, you know you 
have, some deep, mysterious secret, and you are actually afraid 
to tell it to me.” 

“Now, my dear Theo,” exclaims Sir John in a deprecating 
manner, but with conscious guilt upon his countenance, “what 
could I have upon my mind that I should be afraid to tell 
you?” 

“Do not attempt to equivocate or contradict me; you know 
as well as I do that there lies upon your conscience a grievous 
burden, which you are dying to share with somebody ; and you 
know also that it has everything to do with Claude Ruthyn’s 
visit here to-day.” 

“Well,” answers Sir John, with sudden emotion, taking her 
hands from his face and holding them closely between his own, 
“supposing I do know the secret of his visit here to-day, and 
supposing that visit to have a great deal to do with the future 
happiness of my darling girl, surely, I may be excused for feel- 
ing a deep anxiety and interest in the matter? ” 

“What did he say ?” the girl asks, flushing a little, and turn- 
ing away her face from her father’s gaze* 

“ He said he wanted my little girl to be his own forever ; and, 
seeing as I did the extreme love he bears for my child, I told 
him that from yon alone could come the answer to his question, 
but that, succeeding with you, he had my full consent. Not 
but that,” continues Sir John, in a low tone, “I felt very loath 
to say the word that must cause a separation between us two.” 

“ Darling, never! ” cries Miss Blake, impulsively flinging her 
arms around his neck. “ Claude Ruthyn shall never separate 
you and me.” 

Sir John interrupts her gently by taking her in his arms and 
placing her on his knee in the old familiar position o£ childhood, 
and then he says : 

“ Theo, there you are wrong ; there you undervalue Ruthyn’s 
nature. So far from wishing to separate you and me, he actually 
acceded to my request that your home should still be here. 
Few men, 1 believe, would so willingly have agreed to what 
must, in a measure, be a very inconvenient arrangement, but he 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 9 

seemed to have no thought for himself, thinking only of your 
happiness.” 

After this a long time elapses before either .of them breaks the 
silence, and Theo still sits upon her father’s knee, her arm 
around his neck, and her pretty cheek pressed close to his, until 
at length Sir John says, gravely : 

“Well, Theo, when he comes to-morrow, what will you say 
to him?*’ 

“I shall say, ‘Yes,’ papa,” Miss Blake answers, quietly; 
“and for the future he shall be next to you in my heart. I will 
explain this to him, and of course he will at once see the justice 
of it.” 

“Oh, Theo, my dear love,” says poor Sir John, regretfully, 
“ that would not be at all right, in fact, it would be very wrong. 
Your husband should be the foremost in your thoughts ; and, 
believe me, I shall very soon be contented with the second 
place.” 

“That you never shall,” declares Miss Blake, with calm 
decision; “you shall be first with me always.” Whereupon 
she smooths his hair tenderly with both her hands, and having- 
kissed and petted him to her heart’s content, finally betakes 
herself to the drawing-room. 

chapter ri. 

“To-morrow” having, in the course of time, subsided into 
“to-day,” Claude Ruthyn, with exemplary punctuality, and with 
his heart in his mouth, arrives at Vesey Court. On entering the 
grand old hall he is suddenly accosted by Sir John, who has 
been evidently on the look-out, and who, being in the highest 
state of excitement, claps him on the back, whispering most mys- 
teriously, “ It is all right, — she is in her boudoir ; ” upon which, 
taking all these signs into consideration the young barrister 
begins to feel somewhat reassured, and following the kindly 
hint, goes straightway up the oak staircase, and pauses at the 
door of Theo’s sanctum^ 

Theo is seated in a very picturesque attitude, on a low chair 


10 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


before the fire, when Claude Ruthyn opens the door. She rises 
quickly, but gracefully, to welcome him, and over her face for 
an instant there creeps one of her rare, faint blushes, that dies 
almost before its birth, as she holds out to him her little white 
hand, which he retains in his own firm clasp. 

Ruthyn is well known in his profession and, indeed, all the 
London world, as a very brilliant speaker and a rising man. 
Many a time has he been complimented on the extreme beauty 
and fluency of his language and his perfect self-possession ; but, 
standing here to-day before the woman who holds his heart in 
her small hand, his powers of oratory seem to forsake him, and 
it is with considerable difficulty, and in a very low, agitated tone, 
that he utters the simple words, “Theo, I love you.” 

“ Yes,” shyly, “ I know it. Papa told me so.” 

“My darling,” Claude says, lovingly, and feeling bolder now 
that the first words have been delivered, “you know also that 
I am come here to-day to ask you to be my wife, and to hear 
from your own lips whether you think it possible you can ever 
love me. Theo, you like me? ” 

“Yes,” she replies, still very shyly, and looking away from 
him into the fire, although her hand remains in his, — “yes, I 
like you, very much.” Claude’s grasps tightens as she gives 
him this slight encouragement. “ But still you must listen to me 
when I tell you that, however much I may like you, you can 
never be first in my thoughts.” 

“Oh, Theo, my love, wdiat are you saying?” cries Claude, 
a horrid fear overpowering him lest some one has forestalled 
him in the heart of his beloved, and gazing anxiously into her 
half-averted face. 

“Oh, no, not that,” Theo says, divining his thoughts in a 
moment. “ It is only papa I mean. I know you will understand 
at once that nobody ever can be as dear to me as he is.” Then 
with a charming little upward glance, half shy, half pleading, 
from the large gray eyes, she says, “Do you mind — much?” 

“Not a bit,” Claude answers, with a sigh of intense relief, 
“as it is only your father. But you will try to love me, too, a 
little in time, will you. not? And — you will marry me, Theo? ” 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


II 


“ Yes,” Miss Blake replies, relapsing into her former shyness ; 
whereupon the young man, stooping, kisses: her, and so they are 
betrothed. 

Theo stipulates for a year’s grace, six months of which pass 
quietly and happily enough, when one morning, about the end 
of that time, both she and her father are startled by the receipt 
of a letter from Lady Mostyn, Theo’s aunt, inviting her warmly 
to come up to her and spend the remaining months of her liberty 
in London. 

“ Tiiis will greatly please me, and do the child much good,” 
her ladyship writes, “as it is essential that Theo should both 
know and be known in the London world before entering it as a 
m ar ri e d woman.” 

This letter is the cause of great perplexity both to Sir John 
and Theo, the former wondering silently how he will be able to 
endure Vesey for so long a time without the presence of its ruling 
sovereign, and Theo herself being swayed by two conflicting 
desires, the one to stay with her father, the other to see a little 
of the London life she has heard so much about. 

While they hesitate the entire day, even up to dinner-time, 
over the answer to be sent to Lady Mostyn’ s proposal, Claude 
Ruthyn most opportunely arrives ; and, the matter being placed 
before him and duly discussed, he gives it as his opinion that 
Theo ought to go, feeling in his own mind how sweet it will be 
to have his darling so much nearer to him. 

“You are a traitor in the camp,” says Sir John, *^and your 
reasons are obvious ; however, I dare say you are right ; so go 
you shall, Theo.” 

“What will you do without me?” Miss Blake asks, plain- 
tively, twining her pretty fingers within his. “ I shudder when 
I picture you here alone.” 

“ I dare say he is inwardly rejoicing at the delicious prospect’ 
before him,” Claude puts in, provokingly. 

“Very good,” returns Theo; “but please to remember that 
this is all your doing ; and if I happen to fall in love with any 
one of the dukes or marquises that seem to be always running 
loose about London, and elope with him, you may blame your- 


15 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


self. Have you quite finished your wine ? Are you sure ? 
Well, then, come and smoke your cigar with me, on the 
terrace.” 

Miss Blake holds out to her lover, with pretty, childish 
grace, her slender hand. He takes what she offers him so 
sweetly, bending to kiss it as he does so, and they both pass 
out into the quiet spring night, where Claude Ruthyn smokes the 
last cigar he will ever smoke with beautiful Theo Blake. The 
matter being finally arranged, the next morning, after breaks 
fast. Miss Blake mounts her favorite mare the “ Queen,” and 
gallops straight across the counjtry to bid a tender farewell to 
her chosen friend and confidante, Clarissa Saville. 

This latter young lady is a first cousin of Claude Ruthyn’ s 
and a niece of Mr. Saville’ s, and generally comes for about 
four months in the year from her own home in Todminster to 
the rectory, to cheer and enliven her uncle and aunt, to whom 
her presence is as dew to the flowers. She is a pretty little 
girl, and both she and Theo entertain a most lively and 
romantic attachment for each other. 

“Clarissa,” says Miss Blake, “ I have come over the whole 
way from Vesey, at railway speed, to tell you a piece of the most 
astounding intelligence. No, thank you, dear, I will not sit 
down, as I have only five minutes to stay. I am going to 
London next week, for six months. There! Congratulate me.” 

“You are not going to be married at once, are you?” Clarissa 
exclaims, wjth uplifted eyebrows. 

“No, no, not that, you small goose,” Theo says; “but papa 
had a long letter yesterday from Lady Mostyn, my aunt, you 
know, inviting me to spend some time with her. And so 1 am 
going, and am come here to-day to bid you good-by.” 

“Oh, you lucky girl! ” Clarissa murmurs, dolefully. “ How 
1 wish I had an Aunt Geraldine, or an aunt anything else for 
that matter, to invite me to London ! Of course, she will take 
you to all the balls, and operas, and concerts, and — and— every- 
thing, and you will get lots of the prettiest dresses, you know, 
and all that. I declare, Theo, I feel horribly envious! And 
Claude, is he very glad about it ?” 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


n 


“Yes,” answers Miss Blake, “ very glad ; indeed, I dare say 
but for him I should not be going at all, as I was feeling very 
undecided about it, not liking to leave the pater alone, you see, 
knowing as I do how dreadfully he will miss me, poor darling, 
when Claude came and laughed away our hesitations and ar- 
ranged it all. So I really am going in the end,” she concludes, 
with a smile of intense enjoyment at the pleasant prospect 
opening before her. 

“Well, ” Clarissa says, half shyly, and blushing a good deal, 
“ I have something wonderful to tell you also, Theo. I had 
such a dear long letter from Hastings this morning, telling me 
that he has got his promotion, and reminding me of my promise 
to go out to him ; so I shall join him in a few months, I suppose. 
Are you surprised ? ” 

“Good gracious, Clarissa! why did you not tell me that 
before?” cries Miss Blake. “Why, next to your news, mine 
sinks into utter insignificance 1 So you are really going out to 
Hastings at last! Well, 1 am glad, for both your sakes; but 
what on earth is to become of me, bereft of my chief brides- 
maid ? ” 

“Will you believe it, Theo, that was the very first thing I 
thought of when I had finished his letter for the fourth time ? 
‘ I cannot be Theo’s bridesmaid,’ I said, in my own mind. And 
now that you are leaving so soon for London, I suppose I shall 
see very little more of you at all before I sail. However, you 
will promise me one thing, dearest, will you not?” Miss Saville 
says, going over to Theo, and resting her hands lightly on her 
shoulders. “You will promise, whatever happens, to come and 
spend my last day with me before I start for India.” 

“ I promise you most faithfully,” Theo says, emphatically ; 
“and not all the balls that can be given shall prevent my keep- 
ing my word. And, now that I have forgotten my first inten- 
tion, and stayed half an hour instead of five minutes, I will go. 
So , good-by, darling 1” 

“ Good-by, Theo ! I do not know what I shall do without 
you but I hope you will have a very, very happy time,* 
Clarissa whispers, h^r arms clasped warmly around her friend’s 


14 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


neck, and her blue eyes full of tears. ** And, whatever occurs, 
do not forget me and your promise while you are away.” 

They kiss once more, and. Miss Saville having made a final 
grand effort to stangle her companion, they part. 

Theo rides home in wild, healthful, girlish spirits, born of the 
coming change in the somewhat monotonous routine of her 
daily life, putting her horse at every stiff fence that comes in her 
way, without fear or thought of danger; while blue-eyed Clarissa 
Saville goes back once more to brood over the letter that is to 
her so sweet a treasure, and never dreams or guesses how much 
Theo’s careless promise is fated to influence her after-happiness. 
The following week Sir John takes his daughter to London, and 
introduces her to her mother’s sister. Lady Geraldine Mostyn. 
Her ladyship is a widow, tall, stately and handsome, but with 
an unmistakable look of good nature on her otherwise haughty 
face, and on seeing Theo, takes an immediate fancy to her. 

“Come here, child,” she says, drawing her to a window, and 
proceeding to examine her critically ; “ I want to look at you. 
Dear me, I should never have known you, you are so com- 
pletely altered from the little shy girl of thirteen I so well 
remember. In fact, it never once occurred to me that you 
could by any possibility be grown up, until I received John’s 
letter, telling me of your approaching marriage ; that opened 
my eyes at once, I assure you. Well, well,” with a sigh “"ou 
are very like your poor mother.” 

“Am I?” Theo asks, with visible interest. 

“Very, the same eyes, and the same voice, too. I am 
saying, John,” continues her ladyship, turning towards her 
brother-in-law, “I am saying what a wonderful likeness there 
is between Theo and our poor Edith.” 

“Wonderful, indeed,” Sir John answers, sadly; “scarcely 
any difference that I can see, except, perhaps, in the want of 
color.” 

“Ah, true,” says her aunt, again regarding Theo attentively; 
“ Edith had always such a very brilliant complexion ; though 
really now, I hardly know if it would be an improvement to 
Theo, I rather think the want of it gives the child a certain 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


15 

original and distinguished air, especially as painting is so much 
in fashion. Well, now that you have come out of your hermit- 
age, John, I hope you are going to spend a week with me at 
the very least.’’ 

“Thank you, thank you, my dear Geraldine,” Sir John says, 
hastily, ‘ ‘ but that is a thing I could never manage. If I were 
to remain away from home for a whole week, everything would 
go to rack and ruin, and ” 

“Rack and fiddlesticks!” interposes Lady Mostyn, bluntly. 
“You know as well as I do that nothing would go wrong at 
Vesey if you stayed away a twelvemonth, to say nothing of a 
week. Theo, try to persuade your father.” 

Miss Blake crosses the room, and puts her arm within his. 

“Do stay, papa,” she says, coaxingly ; “the change will do 
you good.” 

“ Now, Theo, you know well there is nothing on earth I should 
like better,” replies Sir John, indulging in a virtuous fib ; “ but 
indeed it is impossible. However, I promise to come up very 
often to see you both, and that will answer quite as well; ” and 
Theo, seeing his dislike to the proposition, abstains from further 
entreaty. “ Still, I must trespass on your hospitality for this one 
night, Geraldine, if you will allow me,” adds Sir John, address- 
ing Lady Mostyn. 

“My dear John, do not talk of trespassing on me,” rejoins 
Lady Mostyn, heartily. “You know well that it is always a 
great treat to me to catch a glimpse of you, so seldom is it that 
I have that pleasure.” 

“Well, is not that your own fault?” asks Sir John, “consider- 
that Vesey is but one hour’s journey from town, and that 'there 
is a welcome for you at the Court any month of the twelve? ” 

“Very true, John,” her ladyship answers, plaintively. “I 
really must make up my mind to go down and see the old place 
some day. After our dear Theo’s marriage I will certainly think 
about it. By the bye, talking of marriages, do you recollect 
Lord Karn? The Honorable George he was when you knew 
him.” 

“To be sure I do,” says Sir John. 


LOVS, LORD BERRESDORD. 


i6 

** He is not very young, is lie? ** 

“Young? Let me see, he was exactly ten years older than 
I when we were at Eton together,” replies Sir John; “and I 
am sixty now, or thereabouts.” 

“Very good; that makes him seventy,” her ladyship says, 
triumphantly. “ Well, it is not three weeks ago since he mar- 
ried a mere child, hardly as old as Theo there, I should say 
and ” 

“ Dinner is served, my lady,” announces the footman, opening 
the door at this moment. 

“Good gracious? What on earth did she marry him for?” 
exclaims Sir John, with intense disgust. 

“Money, my dear, money,” Lady Mostyn replies, with a 
little sigh of fashionable grief at the wickedness of the world in 
general, as she takes her brother-in-law’s arm and goes down to 
dinner. 

The evening passes away very pleasantly, far more pleas- 
antly than Sir John could have deemed possible out of Vesey 
Court, and the dainty little Swiss clock chimes twelve before 
any one of the three shows the slightest symptom of fatigue. 
Theo retires to rest very much pleased with this her first evening 
in town, feeling, with a sense of relief, that she has taken a 
wonderful fancy to her aunt, Lady Mostyn, which is not to be 
wondered at, as underneath all the seeming worldliness of that 
lady’s character there lies hidden a large amount of kindness 
and general amiability, which only requires an object like Theo 
on which to expend itself ; and Lady Mostyn feels her heart 
open and soften as she gazes on the beautiful face of her poor 
d^ad sister’s child ; so that between these two there springs up 
this first night of their acquaintance an affection which never 
dies. 

The morning comes, bringing with it the hour of Sir John’s 
departure to his beloved home, and Theo is standing in the 
drawing-room with her arms around his neck, giving her final 
instructions and messages. 

“Well, good-by, and God bless you, my dear,” says Sir John, 
at length, “ and be sure you take care of yourself.” 


LOVS, LORD BERRESRORD. 


t7 

“ Oh, there is little fear of me,*’ replies Miss Blake, valiantly ; 
“but how you are to exist without your evil genius I cannot 
imagine.” 

“Never mind me at all, my dear,” answers her father; “put 
my loneliness out of your head altogether. There is no fear but 
that 1 shall get on capitally. Be sure you write to me very 
often, Theo, and tell me of all your fun and your conquests, as 
of course, I shall be anxious to know how my girl is enjoying 
herself. And I will come up every week to see you.” 

“ If you ever forget that, I shall never forgive you,” says Theo. 

“ I won’t forget it,” answers her father. “Don’t you think I 
shall be dying to know whether this horrid London smoke is dis- 
agreeing with my pet.? Heaven willing, I shall be with you this 
day week; so kiss me once more now, my own love, and let me 
be off, or I shall certainly miss the train.” 

“Good-by, my dear darling, and do take care of yourself,” 
says Miss Blake, with a last tender embrace, and with her gray 
eyes full of tears, seeing which, Sir John takes himself hurriedly 
away, leaving behind him, with his beautiful daughter, his bless- 
ing and his check-book. 

After this ensues a round of gayety and amusement, fairly 
dazzling to a girl of Theo’s age, who has been used to no greater 
variety in her life than that which a quiet county affords, con- 
sisting principally of periodical tennis-parties of the flattest 
description, or perhaps an occasional ball ; and Theo is feted, 
and kettle-drummed, and admired to her heart’s content. 

There had been a large garden-party at Lady Hancourt’s, 
and at it Theo had created quite a sensation, numerous strangers 
having requested introductions to the little pale, aristocratic 
child, who carried her small head so proudly among England’s 
most celebrated beauties, much to Lady Mostyn’s satisfaction, 
who lives her own life again in the triumphs of her beautiful niece. 
In truth, she bids fair to hold her own triumphantly, and reign 
queen of hearts over the male portion of London as over Vesey 
Court, counting already among her sworn admirers one marquis, 
one colonel, two baronets, and a young Life Guardsman, the 

n 


18 LOVS, LORD BERRESRoRD. 

Honorable Charlie Christian by name, who is her most abject 
slave. 

Of course, from her infancy Miss Blake has been accustomed 
to admiration of one sort or another, but then the men coming, 
to Vesey Court had been few and far between, and even of those 
few some were too old and some too stupid for love-making ; so 
that it is little wonder that the wholesale adulation she is now 
receiving should be very sweet to her. Still, for all the petting 
and flattery she is enjoying, she manages to keep her pretty head 
firmly fixed upon her shoulders, refusing to let it be even slightly 
turned by the many votive offerings and charming speeches 
which her admirers lay daily at her feet, and manages also to 
retain through everything the bewitching childishness of manner 
which has always been one of her greatest charms. And 
Claude Ruthyn, seeing this, and knowing that her heart is quite 
untouched by the universal homage that surrounds her,, is well 
content that his darling should be caressed and sought after and 
made much of. 


CHAPTER III. 

It is Tuesday morning, and Lady Mostyn and her niece sit 
sipping their chocolate in the latter’s morning-room, while they 
discuss leisurely the coroneted card that lies on the small table 
between them. 

It will be the best ball you have been at yet,** Lady Mostyn 
is saying ; “ the duchess is always so select.** 

*‘She is agreeable, too, very,” says Miss Blake. “Will it 
be a large ball, do you think?” 

“No, small,” her ladyship answers; “she never over- 
crowds her rooms, which is such a comfort. I must have you 
look your best, Theo ; so let us decide at once what you shall 
wear.” 

“White satin, I think,” says Theo, eagerly. ** I have never 
had a white satin, Aunt Geraldine, and I should like one so very 
much.** 

“ But would it be becoming ? ’* her aunt asks, anxiously. 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


19 


** I am certain it would,” rejoins her niece, placing her elbows 
on the table and resting her small chin upon her hands. ‘‘You 
remember I wore white silk at Mrs. Marston’s, which is pretty 
much the same thing, only not so handsome, and you said I 
looked very well indeed.” 

“Then that is settled,” decides her ladyship, with a sigh of 
relief; “and we will choose a good salmon-white, which is 
always becoming. But about ornaments, Theo?” 

“ I shall wear mamma’s pearls — I like pearls and satin — and 
my arrow in my hair,” Miss Blake says, slowly. 

“Eh?” says her ladyship, discontentedly. “You see, the 
arrow is all very well, though slightly heathenish, it is peculiar, 
and anything out of the common is sure to take ; but I am afraid 
the gown, though pretty, will prove rather too much white for 
you, Theo, my pet — you know you are so very pale.” 

“Am I?” says Theo, jumping up and surveying herself in 
the pier-glass. “ What a pity it is that I was not born with a 
color, like everybody else ! ” 

“ Then perhaps you would not have created as great a sensa- 
tion as you have.” 

“Now, I won’t be made conceited. Aunt Geraldine, even by 
you,” interrupts Theo, playfully. “You are worse than Lord 
George ; and he told me yesterday, in his delightfully horsey 
slang, that it was his own private opinion I could lick old Venus 
into fits. I am always dying to ask that man where he was 
educated, but I suppose it would be rude. Now, tell me whom 
we may expect to meet at the Duchess of Santry’s.” 

“Well, now, let me see,” her ladyship says, sinking back in 
her chair, and beginning to look thoughtful; “oh, of course, I 
cannot exactly mention the precise names of those who will be 
there, but if you will just select three hundred of the best people 
out of all those you have met since you came to London, you 
will have made a very accurate guess, I fancy ; and besides, 
young Christian told me yesterday that Loys Berresford has 
come home, and he, being a cousin of the duchess’, will cer- 
tainly be there.” 

♦^Loys Berresford,” Theo repeats, looking puzzled, “ I do not 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


20 

remember to have heard about him before. Loys, — what a curi- 
ousiy pretty name ! Who is he, Aunt Geraldine ?” 

“Ah, true; I quite forgot you never knew him,” her aunt 
answers. “ Well, my dear, he is Lord Berresford, and he has 
just arrived from Vienna, where he has been for the last three 
years.” Here her ladyship pauses for a moment or so, and 
then continues : “ Poor Loys, I remember so well what a sweet, 
handsome lad he was when first I knew him about six years 
ago. Yes, it must be just about that, I fancy, as he is at least 
twenty-six by this time.” 

“Why do you call him * poor Loys’ ?” Miss Blake inquires, 
with pardonable curiosity. “Did anything ever happen to 
him ? ” 

“No, nothing exactly happened to him,” her aunt replies, 
“except that he was so shockingly wild. You see, he had always 
more money than is quite good for a young man entering life with 
nothing to do, and he unfortunately got among a bad set, a hor- 
ribly fast set of men, who did their very best to ruin him.” 

“And where were his father and mother all this time ?” Theo 
asks, raising great pitying eyes to her aunt’s face. 

“Well, that was, I suppose, the primary cause of the whole 
unfortunate business,” Lady Mostyn returns, half sadly. 
“ They both died when he was only a mere boy, leaving him to 
the care of guardians, who were too strict, and kept him in far 
more closely than was at all judicious with a lad of his temper- 
ament, — at least, so I have heard, and that was the story that went 
abroad, and so, indeed, the duchess herself told me; he is a cousin, 
you know, and a wonderful favorite of hers, and the conse- 
quences were, of course, what might have been expected. 
When, at twenty-one, he came in for his property, and felt him- 
self his own master, he w^ent straight to the bad.” 

“Oh, what a sad, sad story! ” says Miss Blake, feeling, she 
scarcely knows why, a strange, unaccountable interest in the fate 
of this luckless young lord. “And after he w^ent to the bad. 
Aunt Geraldine, what became of him then?” 

“ When I say he went to the ‘ bad,’ I mean that he became 
very reckless and wild and dissipated,” her ladyship replies; 


toys, LORD BERRESFORD. 


21 


“and bad stories began to be circulated about him. Not that 
he did anything dishonorable, poor boy ! But society will talk ; 
and presently two or three people in his owui rank cut him. One 
would fancy, from the carelessness of his demeanor, that this 
slight would weigh very lightly on his heart ; but, on the con- 
trary, he was bitterly indignant, in fact, quite savage, and took 
to cutting all the rest of his acquaintances, without rhyme or 
reason. It is my last act of friendship,” he said to his cousin, 
with a reckless laugh. “ I am saving them the annoyance of 
having to be the first to do the shabby deed.” He went abroad 
soon afterwards, travelling from one place to another, we were 
given to understand, and never returned until now.” 

“ Poor fellow! ” says the girl, w'ith deep compassion both in 
look and tone ; “do you know his story reminds me of nobody 
so much as that unhappy Ishmael? ” 

“ Yes, it really did look as if everybody’s hand was against 
him,” her ladyship acquiesces, slowly; “and he was always 
himself only too ready to accept any challenge. He actually 
tried to cut me one day in the Park, but I would not allow him, 
and sent the footman after him to say that I requested he would 
come to me for five minutes. He came, reluctantly I must con- 
fess ; and you should have seen him. He quite flushed all over 
his handsome face, poor boy, as he said, bitterly, ‘ What, Lady 
Mostyn, have you really the moral courage to so far compromise 
yourself in the eyes of the world as to be seen speaking with 
me ? ’ I cannot tell you, -Theo, how sorry I felt for him at that 
moment. ’ ^ 

“And what did you say. Aunt Geraldine?” her niece asks, 
eagerly, leaning her arms upon the table, and gazing with 
earnest expectation at her relative. ‘ ‘ Do tell me what you 
said.” 

“ Oh, with regard to me,” Aunt Geraldine answers, carelessly, 
“ I just put out my hand to him, you know, and said, quietly, 

* My dear Loys, you must have greatly under-estimated my 
affection for you if you imagine that the eyes of the world could 
ever induce me to look upon you in any other light than that of 
an old friend/ He said nothing in reply beyond a simple ‘ Tliank 


22 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


you,’ but I know he was grateful for my sympathy, and I could 
• have sworn there were tears in his beautiful blue eyes as he 
turned away. He was as dear a young fellow, in spite of all 
that people said against him, as one could wish to know ; and 
they couM never turn me against him,” concludes her ladyship, 
warmly, with a little defiant shake of her head, never, if they 
talked until doomsday.” 

“I wonder what has brought him home now?” Miss Blake 
inquires, thoughtfully. 

“ His uncle, Lord Allport, died the other day, and left him all 
his property, at least, so Charlie was telling me ; and that, I sup- 
pose, is one reason, though I really believe myself he was glad 
of the excuse to come back again and see his old friends.” 

“ I do hope he will be at the Duchess of Santry’s ball this day 
week,” Miss Blake says, earnestly. “I should so very much 
like to see him after all you have told me.” 

“ I shall be really anxious to see him myself,” Lady Mostyn 
replies, rising a§ she speaks; “but I dare say he will have 
changed beyond my recollection. There, we have talked our- 
selves into relaxed sore throats, I should think, by this time ; so 
run away, darling, and put on your things while I order the car- 
riage ; and we will have an hour or two in the Park before 
dinner.” 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Duchess of Santry’s rooms to-night are exquisitely beau- 
tiful as nature and art combined can make them. There are 
flowers here and flowers there, and, in fact, flowers wherever the 
eye may chance to fall, with white, unveiled statues gleaming 
through dusky leaves and trailing evergreens and floating ferns, 
and the distant murmur of wild, sw'eet music mingling with the 
sweeter fragrance of the air. 

In the richly-filled conservatories the faint lamps shed but a 
“dim, religious light” over the magnificent display of rare exo- 
tics that rise from floor to ceiling, scarcely lighting up the distant 
corners which every now and then receive into their dark 


LOYS, LORD BERRESroRD. 




embrace a passing shadow. In the ball-room itself the scene is 
more brilliant still, where jewels and rich dresses and bewitching 
faces flash brightness as they move. 

Leaning against a wall, rather apart from the dancers, with 
his handsome head well thrown back and a moody frown upon 
his brow, stands Loys, Lord Berresford. A more really perfect 
face than his it would be impossible to imagine, though now it 
wears a look of the most intense ennui that somewhat mars the 
classical beauty of the features. His arms are partially folded, 
one hand restlessly stroking his heavy brown moustache ; and 
in the whole attitude and bearing of the man discontent is visibly 
written, while he never stirs, or seems to take the slightest notice 
of all the pretty covert smiles and bright coquettish glances 
which every now and then are wasted upon him. 

His cousin, the duchess, whose special favorite he is, and who 
obstinately through all maintains her loving creed that “ Dear 
Loys was ever more sinned against than sinning,” watches him 
furtively and rather anxiously from a distance, where she is 
endeavoring to hold converse with a stone deaf and rather 
scandalous old dowager, and wishes inwardly he would ask her 
for an introduction to some of the really charming girls who are 
adorning her rooms, and who have come out since last he was 
in London. 

She wishes also, greatly, that he would not stand there alone, 
with such a proudly isolated look upon his face, on this his first 
presentation to the home-world since his return, and has half 
made up her mind to cross the room and actually beg of Loys to 
allow her to procure a partner for him, that handsome Lady 
Olive, for instance, when, looking at him for about the twentieth 
time, she suddenly sees the moody frown disappear altogether 
from his brow, and an expression of the most intense admiration 
take its place. 

She glances round eagerly for the cause, and perceives Lady 
Mostyn, with beautiful, childish Theo Blake beside her, advanc- 
ing slowly through the throng of dancers to her side, and, con- 
tinuing to look, thinks that Miss Blake, with her white satin and 
pearls, and innocent, colorless face, makes as sweet a picture 


ZOVS, LORD BERRESFORD 


U 

to-night as a girl can make, as, with her usual careless, high- 
bred air, she walks up that long room amidst a blaze of light. 

Presently, after the hostess has greeted her new friends, and 
Theo is standing at a little distance, surrounded by a group ot 
men, all with cards in their hands, and all eager to claim 
her as a partner, the duchess turns with a start to answer Lord 
Berresford, who has come over and is speaking very earnestly 
to her. 

“Who is that beautiful girl?*’ he asks. “What a lovely, 
simple expression ! Introduce me to her, Constance, will 
you ? ” 

“ Of course I will,” the duchess says, anxiously, only half glad 
at this unexpected interest on his part ; “ but you must not lose 
your heart to her, Loys, as she is forbidden fruit.” 

” Is she?” Loys says, with a strange little pang of envy 
gnawing at his heart, and biting his under lip savagely, adds, 
“ I might have known it ; so charming a child would scarcely be 
let go -free. Is the man in the room ? ” 

“ No, he could not come.” 

“Then introduce me at once,” his lordship says, moving, as 
he speaks, towards the spot where Theo is standing, looking 
pleased and happy, and thoroughly in her element. 

“ May I hope for a dance with you this evening. Miss Blake ? ” 
Loys asks, eagerly, when his cousin has walked away, having 
performed the ceremony of introduction. “ Your card is not 
quite full, is it? ” 

“No,” glancing at the diminutive gilded programme lying in 
her hand. “From four to ten I am engaged; but this is the 
third they are beginning now, is it not? and nobody has asked 
me for it — unless you are going to do so,” she adds, with a pretty 
smile and a charming upward glance from her gray eyes. 

“The Fates are appeased! ” the young man exclaims, gayly, 
offering her his arm. “ I had almost ceased attempting to pro- 
pitiate Fortune ; but I begin to think now that she is tired of 
abusing me. Besides this waltz, if I promise to dance my very 
best, you will give me the eleventh, will you not? and perhaps 
the twehtli?” 


25 


ZOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 

** 1 will tell you that when I have had a trial of your * very 
best’,” Miss Blake answers, laughingly ] and then they join the 
other dancers. 

When, presently, they stop, slightly out of breath, Lord 
Berresford says : 

“ Well, am I to have those other two dances ? ” 

“ Yes,” Theo answers, without the faintest hesitation. You 
shall have them, and with pleasure.” Then, with a sigh of 
intense enjoyment, she remarks, “ Oh, what a delicious amuse- 
ment this dancing is I 1 do think it is the most charming thing 
in all the world, don’t you ? ” 

“ No, I do not,” Loys answers, promptly. ** I know several 
things which I consider far more charming.” 

“Do you?” with a look of surprise, born of the late wild, 
sweet enjoyment she has experienced. “ Tell me them.” 

“ Shall 1 ? Very well, then. Come with me into this recep- 
tacle for insects, and I will impart my private thoughts to you 
among the flowers,” Lord Berresford says, leading her towards 
one of the dimly-lit conservatories. 

When they have reached the farthest end, and Theo has com- 
fortably ensconced herself among the soft cushions of a sofa, 
she says, carelessly : 

“ Now, then, tell me the things you most particularly affect.” 

“The things that to me appear the most charming, you 
mean,” Loys answers, slowly, throwing one arm across the back 
of the sofa and gazing intently at her. “ Well, then, I must at 
once acknowledge that large deep gray eyes and soft brown hair 
seem to me the most beautiful things in all the world.” 

“ Then your knowledge of beautiful things must be limited,” 
Miss Blake answers, quietly, indolently plucking an unoffending 
little rose to pieces as it lies half hidden in her bouquet. “ Now, 
to me they do not ; so here is one point already on which we 
totally disagree.” 

“Rather soon for us to be disagreeing, is it not,” he asks, 
with a smile, “considering that it is scarcely half an hour since 
I had the pleasure of being introduced to you ? Well, this 
decides me. I shall tell you no more of my favorite ideas, for 


26 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


fear we might come to open war ; and to change the subject, I 
will ask you to give me one of those unfortunate flowers you 
seem so industriously bent upon destroying, will you ? ” 

“ No ! ” petulantly, raising the flowers and gazing critically at 
them. I would not spoil the symmetry of my bouquet for any 
one. How can you be so selfish as to ask me when you see so 
many others around you only waiting to be plucked ? ” 

“Yes, I see,” with a disappointed look. “Thanks for the 
suggestion ; but I hardly think I shall go to the trouble of pro- 
curing myself a flower in that way. It was just a simple fancy 
of mine to get one from your hand ; and I was foolish enough 
for the moment to imagine you would not refuse me. But you 
are quite right, I do not suppose I am worth so sweet a gift.” 

“ I did not say you were worthless, did I ? ” she says, bending 
over the flowers in question, and feeling half sorry that she has 
refused him. “I should be sorry to think that of you, or any 
one. Nobody can be thoroughly worthless, you know, until 
they have no good left in them.” 

“ Well, I rather think that comes very near my case,” he 
answers, with a light laugh. “ It seems a long time since I have 
had anything to do with good people, or they with me.” 

“ Do you not like them ? ” gravely. 

“It is* not so much that I dislike them as that they don’t 
appreciate meE Loys answers; “only a very slight difference, 
after all, is it not ? There, do not look so grieved about my sins. 
Miss Blake, or I shall begin to feel horrified about them myself 
for the first time ; and that is scarcely worth while, is it? ” 

“ Do not talk like that,” Theo exclaims, impatiently. “It is 
not right, and I do not care to hear you. You seem to take 
quite a pleasure in not being what is called good.” 

“There you wrong me,” the young man answers, hastily. 
“ Heaven knows I wish to be as holy as the best of these pious 
Pharisees who make such a point of passing me by on the other 
side. But that is one of the impossible things, I fear ; so I must 
only submit to be found wanting.” 

“If not good, what are you, then?” Miss Blake inquires. 


LO vs, L ORD BERRESFORD. 1 7 

raising her eyes to his, and thinking of that conversation last 
week which she had with Aunt Geraldine over her chocolate. 

“ The other thing, I am afraid,” he replies, feeling half amused 
at the turn the discussion has taken, but returning her gaze 
steadily. 

“ Bad ? ” Theo asks, in a low tone ; and with a slight air of 
defiance, he bows his head in token of assent ; though, with all 
his bravery, he cannot entirely suppress the shade of sadness and 
vain regret that creeps over and darkens his face, as he thinks 
how much better it would have been could he, with truth, have 
related a different story to the beautiful eyes just now gazing so 
compassionately into his. 

As for Theo, an unaccountable and intense feeling of pity for 
this misguided young man takes instant possession of her tender 
heart. " Poor, poor fellow!” she whispers to her own mind; 
and turning away her face from his, she separates from her 
bouquet a little fragile blossom of delicate hue and places it in 
his hand, with a gesture at once impulsive and full of childish 
grace, most inexpressibly sweet and touching. 

“ I am sorry I refused you before,” she says, gently and very 
shyly, while, almost too moved for words, he takes the flower 
she has given him, holding both it and the little gloved hand 
that proffered it. in his own for a moment. Theo rises, as if to 
return to the ball-room, and then Loys breaks the silence. 

Believe me. Miss Blake,” he says, in a low tone, “no one 
has ever made me feel half so thoroughly ashamed of all the 
wasted years of my useless, ill-spent life as you have made me 
fed within the last two minutes.” And then, offering her his 
arm, without another word passing between them, they enter 
the dancing-room once more, where Miss Blake is immediately 
claimed by young Christian for the waltz just then commencing. 

After this Loys seeks no other partner, but goes back to his 
first position, and leans against the wall, his face, however, 
cleared of the bored expression that had before characterized it. 
He stays watching Theo’s bright, animated face for a while, as 
it appears every now and then amidst the moving figures. Pres- 
ently the object of his musings passes with her attendant cava- 


28 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


lier into an adjoining room, and then Berresford arouses himself 
and fights his way manfully to the top of the room to where 
Lady Mostyn is sitting, and renews his good-fellowship with his 
former friend. He converses of different things and places, 
mutual recollections and acquaintances, until he brings round 
the conversation artfully to the subject of her niece ; on which 
topic he dwells with eager interest, until he perceives it is no 
longer possible to do so without its appearing noticeable ; after 
which he retires once more to his old solitary attitude, and falls 
to pondering =many things, Miss Blake in particular. 

“Good heavens,” he thinks, “ if I had only had such a girl 
as that to love me, what a different fellow I might have been ! 
How beautiful she is, and how sweet to me that time in the con- 
servatory ! And yet I suppose her heart is entirely bound up in 
the man she is going .to marry. It is a hard thing that, of all 
the women I have ever met, most of whom were only too ready 
to smile upon me, though why, goodness only knows, the only 
woman whose love I should have valued is denied me. I won- 
der what sort the fellow is on whom she is going to bestow her 
priceless self? He ought to be a prince at the very least, if she 
were to get her deserts ; though I dare say, after all, she is fol- 
lowing the destiny of most handsome women, and is throwing her- 
self away on some commonplace nonentity, totally incapable of 
appreciating such an inestimable gift. I wonder if she is very 
much in love with him ? If I could be only sure that she was 

not, I would ” But here his thoughts wander to forbidden 

ground, and with an effort he brings himself back to the present 
world, to find Theo’s gaze fixed full upon him from the oppo- 
site side of the room ; and as their eyes meet, she smiles one of 
her rare, sweet smiles, which he answers back again, and in 
another moment she is once morevlost among the crowd. 

He manages to take her down to supper, however, and lingers 
over her, attending to her wants, and anticipating her every wish, 
as though she were a mere child, to be petted and carressed, all^ 
which attentions fall with dangerous sweetness on Miss Blake’s 
heart. It is very gratifying to have that handsome, tired-looking 
face brightening into unmistakable pleasure at a word from her, 


10 vs, LORD BERRESFORD, 


while he remains so dead and cold to the charms of all the others 
around her; and it is almost with a sigh of regret that she 
accepts his arm to go back again to the ball-room. 

“This next will be ours, the eleventh,” Loys says, as they 
reach the door ; “it has seemed to me about a quarter of a cen- 
tury since that last w'altz we had together.” 

“The eleventh, is it?” Theo asks, with open dismay. “And 
I heard Aunt Geraldine tell somebody this very moment she is 
going home at once.” 

“Oh, you must not disappoint me in this dance,” Lord Berres- 
ford says, with almost passionate entreaty in his tone; “I have 
waited so long for it, too. Your'Aunt Geraldine is so old a friend 
of mine that' I am certain I can persuade her to remain if you 
will give me permission to try, that is,” bending and looking 
anxiously into his companion’s eyes, “ if you really care to stay.” 

“Oh, I want to stay, of course,” Miss Blake replies, hastily, 
with charming candor, showing clearly how disappointed she is 
at the prospect of losing this last dance, and blushing softly as 
she speaks; “so go at once and ask her. There she is, over 
there, do you not see her? talking with, and I do believe saying 
good-night to, old Lord Plancourt. Go this minute, or it will be 
too late ; and be sure you tell her it is very early. I shall wait 
here for you until you return.” 

Thus admonished, Loys goes; and Miss Blake watches anx- 
iously his tall, slight figure as he makes his way with considerable 
difficulty through the revolving crowd to where Lady Mostyn is 
standing. Theo can see from her post of observation that he is 
asking something very entreatingly of her ladyship, but cannot 
guess the latter’s reply. Lord Berresford being in such a posi- 
tion as to prevent her watching the expression of her aunt’s face, 
so that it is with eager, childish impetuosity she greets him as he 
once more approaches her side. 

“ Well?” she asks, quickly, looking expectantly at him. 

^ “Yes, it is well,” he answers, triumphantly. “My unri- 
valled eloquence prevailed ; see what it is to have the voice of 
the charmer, Miss Blake. My touching little speech melted her 


i 


30 LOYS, LORD BERRESPORD. 

ladyship at once ; and we are to have our last dance unmo- 
lested.” 

And so they do have their last dance together, and are very 
perilously happy and contented in each other’s society, until 
Lady Mostyn’s fan descends with gentle force upon Theo’s 
shoulder, while its owner murmurs : 

“ Come, Theo, it is really all hours. You are becoming 
terribly dissipated, child. Loys, bring her down at once to the 
cloak-room ; I shall not stay a moment longer to please either 
of you.” 

So Loys takes her down -stairs as he is commanded, and 
covers up the soft, round shoulders very tenderly, in a marvel- 
lously lovely Opera-cloak, finding it, with those divine eyes look- 
ing into his, the most difficult task he has ever undertaken to 
discover the fastening, and finally puts his beautiful partner 
carefully into her carriage. 

“Good-night, Loys,” Lady Mostyn says, just as they move 
off; adding, cordially, “You will come and see us very soon, 
will you not ? ” 

“Thank you; indeed I will,” Loys answers. “Good-night, 
Miss Blake!” And he feels, as his grasp tightens, that he 
would willingly sacrifice home and lands, nay, life itself, to 
be able for even a little time to call the hand he holds his own. 

“He is very little changed,” Lady Mostyn says, after a long 
'silence; and when they are well on their way home, “very 
little indeed, except that he is slightly older looking. Now, is 
he not handsome, Theo ? ” 

“Very,” Miss Blake answers, absently, as they roll along 
swiftly under the silent stars, thinking considerably more than 
is good for her of this same handsome young lord, who has 
shown her so plainly to-night how hopelessly he has succumbed 
to the power of her fresh, fair loveliness, and wonders vaguely 
in her own mind when she shall see him again, and whether he 
is really so very wicked as people have said. He does not look 
wicked, she thinks. Those who inveighed most bitterly against 
him were probably mere outsiders, and knew nothing at all 
about him. 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


31 


How pleased, how gratified he had seemed when she offered 
him ihat little flower to-night ; had he yet thrown it away, faded 

and dead as it must be, or would he But here she breaks 

off this train of thought to enter upon another, and wonders, 
curiously, if he has ever been in love, and, if not, — if not — well, 
in that case, she thinks the girl who in the end will gain his 
heart will be a very happy girl indeed ; and just at this point 
there rises before her mind the face of Claude Ruthyn — the face 
of the man she has promised in less than four months from now 
to marry ; and it is with a bitter pang of self-reproach that she 
remembers how little room he has occupied in her thoughts 
to-night. 

The recollection of her faithlessness somewhat damps the 
almost feverish gaiety of her spirits, sendihg her to bed with a 
heavy weight upon her conscience, where she dreams all night 
of Loys* triumphant face, as he stands in a menacing attitude 
over her, a knife uplifted in his hand, while at her feet lies, pale 
and bloody, the corpse of Claude Ruthyn. 

She awakes shivering from her ghastly dreams ; and when, 
some hours later, her betrothed calls to see how his darling is 
looking after her last night’s fatigue, and on leaving bends to 
claim his farewell caress, try as she may, and does, she cannot 
entirely withstand the slight shrinking from his embrace which 
unaccountably overpowers her. Seeing his anxious, disap- 
pointed expression, however, she inwardly upbraids her own 
cruel conduct, calling herself by all sorts of unpleasant names ; 
and when, some few minutes later, after a little more lingering, 
he finally takes his leave, she atones for her seeming heartless- 
ness by going to him and kissing him gently of her own sweet 
accord, the remembrance of which little tender act on her part he 
treasures in his heart, and lives on for many a day afterwards. 

CHAPTER V. 

** Of course, you are coming to Mrs. Marston’s garden-party 
to-morrow?** Lord Berresford asks, about a month later, as he 
stands on the hearth-rug in Lady Mostyn’s drawing-room. 


33 


LOYS, LORD BERRESRORD. 


watching Theo’s nimble fingers as they move swiftly to and frc> 
among the colored silks she is fashioning into some intricacy for 
a bazaar. 

He has managed to see her pretty nearly every day since their 
first meeting at the Duchess of Santry’s, and hour by hour has 
the conviction grown more steadily upon him that he loves her 
madly and passionately, although he cannot but feel that in all 
probability his love must terminate in bitterness. 

“ Of course, you are coming to Mrs. Marston’s garden-party 
he says. 

“ Perhaps,** Miss Blake answers, absently. 

“ Oh, do not say ‘ Perhaps,* — say ‘ Certainly.’ It wall be such 
an unpardonable breach of faith on your part if you decline at 
the last moment, because it was simply upon the understanding 
that you were going that I was induced to accept the invitation 
at all. You surely will not be so cruel as to deliver me up to 
the tender mercies of all those abominable old dow^agers 
to-morrow? ’* 

Did I say ' Perhaps* ?** Miss Blake inquires, rousing herself 
from the contemplation of her work. “ If I did, I could not 
have been listening to a single word you said, as I am most 
undoubtedly going, weather permitting.” Then, after an 
almost imperceptible pause, she adds, “ Mr. Ruthyn is to come 
here and escort Lady Mostyn and myself.** 

“Ruthyn?” he asks, superciliously raising his eyebrows. 
“And who is Ruthyn?*^ He knows perfectly in his heart wdio 
the man is of whom he is speaking. “ I never recollect hearing 
the name before.** 

“He is a friend of mine,’* Miss Blake answers, with cold 
emphasis. 

“ A very particular friend ? *’ 

“Yes, a very particular friend,” she says, with rather more 
emphasis this time, bending her head to hide the crimson blood 
that rises, covering unmercifully both face and neck with its Vich 
glow; marking which signs of confusion, Loys involuntarily 
clinches his teeth firmly upon his under lip with a sudden, quick 
pang of intense jealousy, and determines in his own mind to 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


33 


make her speak at all hazards of this hated engagement. So, 
coming over to the little inlaid table directly behind which she 
is sitting, he sits down composedly, and resting his elbow on 
the edge of it, begins to stroke his moustache in a rather medi- 
tative manner. Presently he says : 

*‘What are you doing?” And Miss Blake, inexpressibly 
relieved by the turn the conversation has taken, answers, gayly, 

“ I shall not tell you. You would only say most probably that I 
was a specimen of harmless lunacy. Men always imagine that 
any work which a woman engages in must of necessity be silly.” 

“Put me down as an exception. I highly approve of their 
having plenty of employment, silly or not silly, as a means of 
keeping them out of mischief ; besides which, when women 
have pretty hands, it is only fair that they should be allowed 
some way of displaying them ; and nothing, I think, answers 
that purpose so well as work — or rings. By the by, that is an 
extremely handsome ring upon your finger.” 

“This?” Theo asks, rather consciously, pointing to a little 
gold band studded with turquoises and pearls, a ring she knows 
well he does not mean. 

“ No, the opals and diamond, on the third finger of your left 
hand,” he answers, quietly, gazing at her with a settled purpose 
in his eyes the while. 

“ Oh, this one,” she says, endeavoring to speak in an uncon- 
cerned manner, but failing miserably, and twisting the jewelled 
article in question round and round upon her finger nervously. 
“ Yes, it is a pretty thing.” Then, raising her eyes to his, and 
seeing the expectant look upon his face, she adds, suddenly and 
defiantly, “ It is my engagement ring.” 

“ Indeed ! ” Lord Berresford answers, throwing into his voice 
as large an amount of well-bred astonishment as he well can. 

‘ ‘ So you really are engaged ? I should never have thought it. 
Well, in the matter of jewelry he has proved himself a fellow of 
extremely good taste, whoever he is, only, I suppose, he forgot 
that opals are unlucky.” 

To this there is no reply, and for a little time “silence reigns 
supreme/’ except for the quick, impatient ticking of the little 
3 


34 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


ormolu clock upon a distant table, which presently chimes 
faintly and sweetly the half-hour. 

Loys still maintains his former attitude, never stirring or 
removing his moody gaze from off the girl who sits before him, 
striving calmly, but with trembling fingers, to mark out the 
pattern that lies upon her lap, while all the time her poor heart 
beats so strongly that she almost fancies he too must hear it. 

“ Miss Blake.” No answer. 

“Miss Blake,” — this time louder and more sternly, “why 
did you never before tell me of this engagement ? ” 

“ Because I did not see the necessity for doing so,” Miss 
Blake answers, meaning to be cold and haughty, but breaking 
down pitiably as she adds, “ and— and — besides, I thought you 
knew it.” 

Loys did know it, from that very night, some weeks back, on 
which he first made her acquaintance ; but, to suit his own pur- 
poses, he chooses now to smother this knowledge, and so, ignoring 
the latter part of her sentence, he gives heed solely to the former, 
and says, bitterly : 

“ Of course, I know I have no right whatever to demand an 
explanation from you on that or any other subject ; but putting 
aside altogether my right, did it never occur to your own heart 
— knowing yourself to be the property of another man, as you 
did — what cruel kindness it was to allow me to be in your 
society day after day and hour after hour, without one word of 
warning, until I had reached the topmost height of my Fool’s 
Paradise, and then to cast me out into darkness ; did this never 
enter into your consideration of things ‘ right and fitting ’ ? ” 

“ You have no cause for talking to me like this,” the girl says, 
rising as she speaks, pale and very agitated, and letting needles, 
patterns, colored silks, and all fall unheeded to the ground ; 
“ you have no cause, none. What have I ever said or done that 
you should mount into the paradise of which you speak?” 

“Nothing,” he answers, passionately, “nothing beyond a 
few sweet smiles and a few soft words and the exercise of the 
power of your fatal beauty. Even the man you have promised 
tQ marry could find no fault with any of your words to me ; and 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 3S 

yet, for all that, you have won my heart as surely as though you 
had expended all your energies upon the task. Are you satis- 
fied with your complete success now that it is attained ? ” 

“ Loys! ” With wild, dangerous, subtle sweetness his Chris- 
tian name falls from her lips upon his ear, almost unconsciously 
on her part, for at this moment all is forgotten, her engagement, 
her plighted word, her pride, everything save the unhappiness 
of the man before her, whom she now feels she loves with all 
her soul, and as she can never hope to love Claude Ruthyn. As 
she speaks she lays upon his arm a little hand that trembles 
nervously — raises to his her great gray eyes, now, indeed, no 
longer gray, but black with all the pain and love and passionate 
entreaty that shine with such fatal clearness in their depths. 

“Loys!” The word in itself is a carress, but, accompanied 
as it is by the gentle, imploring clasp upon his arm, it proves too 
much for Berresford and flinging all prudence and honor to 
the winds, he catches between his own broad palms the little 
fragile hand, whispering in a low, vehement tone : 

“ Theo, my love, my darling ! ” 

At this point, however, there is heard in the adjoining draw- 
ing-room a rustle as of approaching gowns, mingled with the 
sound of voices and Lady Mostyn’s low, soft laugh; and Theo 
has barely time to withdraw her hand, stooping to cover her 
confusion by gathering up the fallen silks still lying at her feet, 
when the door opens, and Lady Mostyn herself appears, ushering 
in Lord and Lady Hancourt. 

Not one of these three new-comers could have guessed from 
Loys’ well-bred smile and Theo’s calm, self-possessed greeting 
how passionately are throbbing both their hearts, or imagined 
the scene that had just been enacted ; and it also passed 
unnoticed when, some few minutes later, Loys rose to take his 
leave and bid good-by, how strangely lingering was his farewell 
to Miss Blake, and how earnestly and persistently, though 
vainly, he strove to meet hen* gaze, and how silent and distrait 
the girl was for at least five minutes after he had gone. 


36 


LOYS LORD BERRESFORD, 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next day dawns both clear and bright. The snn is shining 
tranquilly down upon Mrs. Marston’s guests, as they stand grouped 
here and there on the soft, sloping lawn beyond which runs the sil- 
ver Thames. 

All through the afternoon Theo has flirted to her heart’s content, 
in her usual childish, insouciant manner, with the numerous men 
who throng to her standard, making herself remarkable with no one, 
but being most particular to avoid Lord Berresford whenever that 
is possible. So the day passes, until towards the close of it she 
finds herself the centre of a small group of both sexes standing on 
the water’s brink. 

“ Oh, what lovely lilies ! ” cries Miss Blake, suddenly, pointing to 
a considerable distance where great sleepy-looking flowers lie, float- 
ing backwards and forwards lazily on the river’s surface. “ Fancy 
my never having procured any of them during the entire day ! I 
must get some at once. Who will take me over in this little boat ? 
I know you do not row,” turning to Claude Ruthyn, who is stand- 
ing near her. 

He shakes his head acquiescingly, murmuring as he does so : 

‘ ‘ Do not go at all, Theo. What signify those water-lilies ? And 
I feel certain that that small punt is not quite safe. Believe me, 
it is better for you to remain here.” 

“ No, no,” she says, impatiently; “ I must get those lilies, as I 
have set my heart on them. I won’t be disappointed. Sir Harry,” 
turning to a jovial, red-faced old gentleman of about sixty-five, 
“ will you row me across? I promise most faithfully not 1o flirt 
with you once the entire time — there ! ” 

“ My dear Miss Blake, you know how delighted I should be if I 
only could,” answers the rosy individual addressed ; “ but it is at 
least twenty years since I touched an oar, and there would be much 
more probability of my upsetting the boat than of doing anything 
else ; here, however, is the fellow who will answer your purpose. 
Berresford ! Berresford ! ” calling to a tall figure coming slowly 
towards them. “ Hurry yourself, man ; you are badly wanted here.” 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


37 


“Oh, no ! *’ Theo cries, involuntarily, putting out her hand in a 
vain effort to stop him, thereby causing Ethel Marston to turn and 
gaze wonderingly at her. “Oh, no, Sir Harry!” But it is too 
late to make further remonstrance, as Loys is already beside her. 

“ Want to be rowed acoss? ” he asks, eagerly. “ Then I am the 
very fellow, if you will trust yourself with me, Miss Blake. I here 
constitute myself your ‘jolly young waterman’ on the spot, and 
promise to take superfluous care of you. Come along ; and even if 
this exceedingly ancient article in the way of boats should overturn,^^ 
I solemnly ^wear, before all these witnesses, that I will drown 
myself with you. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you,” somewhat ruefully. “ That w’ould be wonderful 
consolation, certainly.” Then, making one flnal effort to escape the 
tete-a-tete she sees impending, she turns to Ethel Marston, saying, 
hesitatingly, “ But perhaps there is no time ? It is getting very 
late, is it not? And Aunt Geraldine ” 

“Oh, nonsense!” Ethel returns. “There are two fall hours 
before you. I hope nobody is dreaming of returning for ever so 
long a time. Make Lord Berresford take you round the little point 
there, and show you the sanded path up the side of the hill, the 
one with the railing, there is such a charming view from the top. 
Do you hear. Lord Berresford ? ” 

“Ay, ay, my lady,” answers his lordship, readily, who is in the 
punt, busily engaged in wiping down the seat with his handker- 
chief. “ Now, Miss Blake ! ” An^ he holds out his hand to assist 
her into the boat. 

There is no help for it, and in another moment they are gliding 
swiftly over the water together, she very silent, and he laughing 
and talking gayly until they have turned the small point that 
hides them from view, when he, too, sinks into speecblessness. 

So they move on in eloquent silence into the middle of a bed of 
igleaming lilies, a small number of which he gathers as they float 
through his Angers, and throws into Theo’s lap, while the frail 
boat glides of its own accord towards the usual landing-place at the 
foot of the small railed pathway mentioned by Ethel Marston. 
Here Loys, springing lightly on shore, offers his hand to Miss 
Blake, and she, too, rising, steps upon the bank, and together they 
ascend the^little hill, neither of them speaking one word until they 
reach the summit, when they rest with their arms upon the rails, 


38 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


and watch the last streaks of the golden sun as he sheds his dying 
glory on the waters. 

“ Theo, do you remember what I said to you yesterday ? ” 

Yes.*^ She is looking away from him down into the calm blue 
depths lying so far below her. “ I remember — I wish I could for- 
get, and I want you to promise me here to-day never, either now 
or at any other time, to speak in such a manner to me again.’’ 

“ I shall never promise you that, never ! i love you, Theo, I tell 
you so plainly in words to-day, although you must have known it 
by my manner yesterday ; I love you as I never have and never 
will again love a woman; and I believe, from my soul, that you 
love me too.” 

“You surely forget to whom you are speaking?” turning upon 
him beautiful, proad, grieved eyes. “You must have forgotten that 
you are speaking to an engaged woman ? ” 

“No, I forget nothing. I know that I am speaking to a woman 
who is going deliberately to marry a man she does not love.” 

“What reason have you for saying that?” the girl asks, after a 
moment’s pause, during which she has realized how bitterly true 
all his last words have been, and feels also, with a sinking heart, 
what a difficult task it will be to conquer in this battle, which she 
knows she must fight alone. 

“I know it,” Loys answers, not triumphantly, but with the 
calm, determined air of a man who feels perfectly convinced of the 
truth of what he is saying; “I know it as surely as though your 
own voice had said it. Do you think I could have been in your 
society for four weeks without discovering how different the story 
is that your eyes betray from that which your lips endeavor to tell ? 
No, Theo ; unconsciously as you have told it, I still know your 
whole story, and I am glad of it, I thank heaven for it! ” adds the 
young man, earnestly “ because, loving you as I do, I believe that in 
the end I shall win you, in spite of yourself. Theo, will you not 
speak to me ? ” 

“You are a coward,” exclaims Miss Blake, with quiet scorn, but 
with an angry flash from her magnificent eyes, “ a contemptible 
coward, to bring me to a place like this — from which you know I 
cannot get away without your assistance — and then force me to 
listen to words most untrue and most hateful to me ! Take me home 
at once. Lord Berresford ; I will not listen to another sentence I” 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


39 


‘‘My cowardice about this matter is a subject I will not discuss 
with you, beyond saying that it was no settled plan of mine our 
coming here at all,” he answers, calmly; “and that you know 
well. But even you yourself do not deny your want of affection 
for Claude Ruthyn, so you cannot accuse me of untruthfulness in 
that one statement, at all events.” 

“If I do not love, at least I will be loyal to him,” Miss Blake 
says, unguardedly ; “and, as I have promised,' so I will perform. 
I shall most surely marry him.” 

“I was right, then, — you do not love him,” replies he, very 
quietly. “Then, after all, I think of we two you are by far the 
greater coward.” 

“ That I can never be,” with quick, bitter emphasis. “Will you 
row me over, Lord Berresford, or must I try to get back by 
myself? ” 

“Presently,” he says, with calm, masculine superiority of tone, 
“ when I have proved to you how culpable your conduct is. You 
are going wilfully to do the man to whom you are engaged the 
greatest injury a woman can do any man — to marry him, to 
bestow upon him your beautiful self, while your heart lives rest- 
lessly elsewhere— all because you have not the moral courage to 
confess that your love was never his. And do you imagine, Theo, 
that afterwards, when he discovers, as he undoubtedly will, the 
living lie he has been cherishing, he will thank you for the hollow 
gift?” 

“ I think he will,” she answers, defiantly, although her lips.have 
grovym white as death; “all your arguments fail to convince my 
conscience that Claude would be glad to get rid of me. I know 
it would break his heart were I to put an end to our engagement ; 
and so in time I shall acknowledge all, and he will- forgive me and 
marry me.” 

“Very well; if your obstinacy carries you to that point, your 
unhappiness be upon your own head,” Berresford says, angrily, 
moving as though to descend the pathway ; but, changing his pur- 
pose the next moment, he turns suddenly, and taking both her 
hands betw^een his own, exclaims, passionately : 

“Oh, Theo, my beautiful darling, you will not be so cruel, — you 
will not sacrifice all the happiness of both our lives for the sake of 
this unhappy engagement? You must see how madly I love you 


40 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


— how unspeakably happy this last month has been to me ! And 
heaven knows it is but little happiness I have enjoyed through all 
my life up to the present time.* Is your dear hand to be the one 
to wreek the only true peace I have ever known ? Theo, have pity ! 
Remember how desolate my life has been, and how desolate it 
must remain to the end, if you still refuse to listen to me. Speak, 
darling, and tell me that my love is not quite hopeless.” 

“What can I ^ay to you?” the poor child replies, in a faint, 
choking voice. “I cannot do the great wrong you ask me. Oh, 
Lord Berresford, at least I was contented until I saw you, and 

now — now But you will go away — you will leave me? I 

ask this last kindness of you from my heart, and I pray heaven I 
may never see your face again, so that in the end I may go to 
Claude Ruthyn, if not with my whole love, at least with a clear 
conscience.” 

At the mention of Ruthyn’s name Loys’ face darkens percep- 
tibly once moie, and he lets one of Miss Blake’s hands fall to her 
side, while he breathes almost savagely £rom between his teeth : 

“That is your answer ; now take mine. I swear that as long as 
I live Ruthyn shall never have you — never ! You are mine by 
right of our love, and I will hold you against yourself and the 
w orld. I have sworn it, and by this kiss I seal my oalh ! ” saying 
which, with a sudden impulse he stoopsand presses a warm, almost 
fierce carress on the hand he still retains, and then abruptly turn- 
ing, without another word he descends rapidly- the small pathway, 
leaving the girl to follow^ more slowly in his wake. 

CHARIER VII. 

It has grown dusk, and a shadowy stillness seems to make more 
holy the beauty of the declining day, as Theo takes her place 
again in the tifjy boat, the water-lillies Loys had given her when 
first they started still resting" in her belt. With a sudden, quick' 
anger she removes them and flings them far from her into the 
peaceful water, where they lie tossing to and fro, among their 
living species, like restless spirits come to haunt once more fheir ^ 
former homes. Seeing the childish action, Berresford almost*^ 
smiles, and pausing for a moment in his opcnpation of rowing, 
says, quietly; 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


41 


“ It is no use, Theo,you cannot face all those people again 
without the lillies you were so anxious to procure ; so you must 
even suffer the flowers that come from me to sully your hands for 
a few minutes longer,’’ stooping as he speaks to pluck another 
handful while the boat passes slowly through them. 

“I will gather them for myself, then,” she says, with sweet 
petulance, pushing up her sleeve, and stretching out a bare, soft 
arm and hand that show snow-white against the blue-green water 
as far as they can reach. 

“ If you stir another inch you will upset the boat,” Loyssays, 
coolly. “ Don’t be a simpleton, Theo. Do you suppose that we two, 
knowing each other as we do, shall be content to go through the 
world from this day forth without exchanging any more civilities 
unto our lives’ end? You know better than that, I fancy. You 
see we have been, up to this, rather too much to one another to be 
able to '• cry off’ at a moment’s notice ; so you must make the 
best you can of me until I have won my cause and can claim you 
as my own, which will surely happen sooner or later. It is Fate, 
(•hiid— or Fortune, which ever you like to call her— and you will 
have to submit ; only do not blame me, but her, that in her blind- 
ness she sent you first Claude Rnthyn instead of Loys Berresford. 
Here, take my flowers, and let us be friends. 

Obediently, and as though almost convinced by the calm cer- 
tainty of his tone how fruitless a thing it is to strive against 
destiny, she takes his flowers, holding out to receive them, the 
.little, cold, bare hand she has just been dabbling in the water ; and 
Loys, inexpressibly touched by the swm et sadness of her yielding, 
kisses for the second' time that evening, the small wet hand he 
retains in his own for a moment. 

When at length they touch the bank from which they started, 
it occurs to Miss Blake that it must be considerably later than she 
imagines, as the guests seem greatly thinned since she left, and 
those that remain exhibit evident symptoms of impatience while 
they wait anxiously for their several carriages. As she and Berres- 
ford cross the lawn together — both silent, the girl carrying her 
small head high in the air, as though to defy comment to fall upon 
her — people look up, and ask, in mysterious whispers, “Where can 
they have been? ” and shake there heads wisely, as, with greedy 
love of scandal, they hope, ominously, “ that Miss Blake will not 


42 


10 vs, LORD RERRESFORD, 


prove false to that charming Mr. Euthyn, but I/oys Berresford 
never yet caused anything but grief and annoyance to those unfor- 
tunate enough to be mixed up in his society ; and if they were 
that silly girl’s aunt ” 

“Good gracious, Theo, where have you been? ’’cries Lady 
Mostyn, impatiently, as, at last, after half an hour’s tiresome 
search, she perceives her niece coming slowly towards her across 
the grass. “ What have you been doing, child? ” 

“I took a fancy to some water-lillies behind that small point; 
and Lord Berresford rowed me over to get them,” Theo answers, 
flushing warmly. 

“ But surely it has not taken you an hour to gather that amount 
of lillies !” Lady Mostyn exclaims, glancing rather contemptuously 
at the three or four flowers the girl is holding. “I don’t believe 
you know what time means.” 

“ If you are determined to consign one of us to the galleys for 
life,” breaks in Loys, jestingly, “let it be me, because it was quite 
my fault from beginning to end. Knowing Miss Blake’s thorough 
apprceiatiou of all things beautiful, I took her up a small hill to see 
the sun go down on the water, and somehow we forgot all about 
the time. But we are awfully penitent, and we will never do it 
any more ; and if you will only forgive us now, we promise tear- 
fully to avoid water-lillies and sunset views for the remainder of 
our days. 

“ Oh, Loys, I might have known that it was all your doing— 
you are never out of one mischief or another,” her ladyship says,L 
with a laugh, feeling all her usual good temper returning as she 
listens to her favorite’s voice ; “ but I should not have felt so 
anxious had I only known where Theo was ; girls are so careless, 
and I could not even find Claude to assist me in my search.” 

“ Have I been a defaulter, also ? ” Claude asks, who has joined 
the group a moment before. “Well, I am scarcely to blame, as 
Marston would inveigle me into the house to see his new billiard- 
room, and kept me there ever since playing with him. Considering 
the purgatory I have been undergoing, I am sure you will not add to 
my punishment, Lady Mostyn, by abusing me for want of attention.” 

“Come away,” Lady Mostyn says, laughing heartily, her good 
humor now fully restored ; “I insist on your all coming at once. 
Theo, my dearest, go into the hall and say good-by to Mrs. 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 43 

Marston and Ethel, and then follow me,’’ saying which her lady- 
ship accepts Claude Euthyn’ arm, and moves off to her carriage. 

“ Well, Theo, I hope you enjoyed yourself, dear,” her aunt asks, 
presently, when they have left the Marston’s house some distance 
behind them. 

“ Yes — no — pretty well,” the girl answers, wearily ; “ the sun was 
intensely warm, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, we are going to have an early summer, I fancy,” Claude 
says ; adding, tenderly, “you are looking very tired, my darling, 
— the sun was to much for you, I fear. See how those flowers are 
fading in your hand,” pointing to the luckless lillies that now lie 
drooping and withering in her warm clasp. 

Miss Blake sighs a half-impatient, passionate sigh as she gazes 
down upon them, and, taking out her handkerchief, she covers the 
flowers gently with it, so*^ holding them until she and her aunt 
reach home, when they are the last things she looks at and kisses 
and weeps oyer before she goes to sleep. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Theo, are you quite determined ? ” 

“ Yes, I am quite determined,” Miss Blake says. 

The speakers are standing in Lady Hancourt’s conservatory, 
alone, with no sound to disturb them save the desolate drip, drip 
of a small fountain close by, and the faint, dreamy echo of a waltz 
as it steals pathetically through the leaves and flowers only to fall 
unheeded on their ears. Miss Blake is dressed in white, with no 
gleaming gem or fleck of color to mar its fair purity, as she stands, 
a piece of soft, warm, living lovliness, against the background of 
cold green leaves and perfumed flowers. For a few minutes there 
is silence, minutes that seem to her to be the longest hour she 
has ever known, and then her coihpanion speaks. 

“Do you know what you are about to do when you say that ? ” 

“Yes; I know that I am about to do my duty — which it is 
only right that I should do, though you make it very hard and 
bitter for nie.” 

“ Your duty,” the young man cries, flercely, it is Loys Berres- 
ford. “ Good heavens, Theo, how can you stand so coldly there 
talking about your ‘ duty’, while you are willing away my very 


u 


ZOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 

soul ? Is it your duty, do you think, to send me straight to 
destruction, and ruin all your own happiness for life ? ” 

‘‘It is my duty to keep to this engagement, you know it is,” 
she says, desperately. “As for my own happiness, that is a thing 
of the past, I shall never be happy again in this world. And you 
— you — oh, Loys, I shall pray on my knees both night and day 
that you may be saved from the misery you speak of.” 

“You may spare your prayers,” he says, with a short, mocking 
laugh. “ Keep them for those they may benefit, but do not waste 
them upon me ; I am past all that, I fancy. With you, I feel I 
could have been something; but, losing you, I lose all hope — and 
you can understand what that means to a man of my nature.” 
Then, changing his tone, and clasping her hands, “ Oh, Theo, for 
pity’s sake think once again— once again before you condemn me 
to what is worse than death.” 

“ Oh, why will you not understand me^? ” the girl cries, vehe° 
mently. “ Why will you make it so hard for me? You know tliat 
my father, my aunt, and all my family know and approve of this 
engagement, and that they would never forgive me the dishonor of 
breaking my plighted word. I believe it would almost kill papa ; 
and Claude, oh, poor Claude, poor Claude! ” breaking down into an 
irrepressible sob of bitter pain, “when I think of him I dare not 
—you see it comes to this, that I dare not — tell them what is lying 
so heavily on my conscience.” 

“Then run away with me,” he cried, with sudden decision. 

She shivers and shrinks away from him ; but he only holds her 
hand the tighter, drawing her back again to him as he continues : 
“Yes; what is there in it that you should look so horrified if you 
dare not tell them all ? Is it not better for you to come away with 
me and so escape it ? ” 

“Do you know what you are saying tQ me? ” Theo asks, with 
white lips that tremble as she tries to speak calmly. “Do you 
know what you are asking me to do ? Have you not heard what 
the world thinks of a woman who does what you have mentioned, 
how she is slighted and lightly spoken of? Do you not know 
that it would break my father’s heart? Oh, Loys, Loys, have 
some pity ! See, I that have never stoV)ped to ask a favor twice of 
iny man before, I implore, I pray of you to go away forever, 
and leave me alone with my unhappiness,” 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


45 


“You forget my oath,” he says, coldly, but with determination ; 
and just at this moment, they perceive Claude Euthyn coming 
slowly towards them through the long conservatory beyond. 

“You are unmerciful, ungenerous,” she murmurs, despairingly. 
“If I could get away from your sight, I would do it gladly; 
hut where can I go that you could not find me? Will nothing 
turn you from this design ? ” 

“Nothing but death,” Berresford answers, very sadly, in no 
wise turned from his purpose by Theo’s beseeching words. 

“ Then may heaven forgive you ! ” she says, solemnly, raising her 
face to his. Her eyes are large and sweet and lovable as ever, but 
in their depths there seems to lie, half lost, a shadow, as of coming 
evil, mingled with present pain, and, seeing it, a great remorse fills 
the young man^s breast. “ It will be of much more consequence to 
me if you forgive me,” he whispers, hurriedly. “Theo, do not look 
so white and frightened. I cannot leave you like this, your face 
would haunt me. Will you not say something kind to me before 
you go? Oh, darling, say that you forgive me ! ” 

“I do, you know I do,” she says, sadly ; and the next instant 
Claude Euthyn is within speaking distance. 

“ It is our dance, Theo, is it not ? ” he asks y and without 
another word or look at Loys, Miss Blake accepts the proffered 
arm, and moves away quietly. 

All life and brightness seem to have departed from her, leav- 
ing only a cold, numb sensation of treachery toward the man at 
her side, which oppresses her heavily, weighing her down, and 
trampling all her fair honor in the dust ; while in her heart, poor 
child, surges up every now and then a vague, undefined wonder as 
to what will be the end of it all, mingled with a wretched longing 
to know her own fate, and the fate of these two men who love 
her, and who are both very dear to her, though one of them is — 
and must ever be — immeasurably the dearer. 

Claude notices her silence and the rather wearied look upon her 
face, and wonders in his turn what “ that fellow Berresford” could 
have been saying to her when he came upon them so suddenly a 
minute ago in the conservatory. And then Claude recollects how 
frequently he has seen them together of late, though he had thought 
nothing of it at the time, and a cold pang of intense agony shoots 
through his heart, leaving him very faint and sick while it lasts. 


46 


LOYS, LORD BERRESLORD. 


“ What was Berresford saying to you, Theo ? ” he asks, at length. 

“ What was he saying to me? ” she repeats, while her heart stops 
for a moment and then heats on again so tumultuously that she 
almost fears its throbbing will be heard. ^‘How can I remember 
what he said ? Some of the thousand and one things, I suppose, 
that one’s partner always says to one.” 

“I do not like you to be so much with him,” Euthyn says; “he 
is not a fit companion for you, and certainly not the sort of man you 
could make a friend of.” 

“Is he not?” the girl asks; listlessly, lowering her eyes. 

“ No, he is not; he is both reckless and dissipated, or, at least, he 
was, and I myself do not much believe in reformed characters. But 
you surely must have heard by this time in what very low- estima- 
tion he is held b^ the world?” 

“I do not believe he is one bit worse than most people,” Miss 
Blake says, decidedly. “ Unfortunately, his sins have been more 
open, and the world has had a splendid opportunity for condemning 
his conduct and proclaiming its owm virtues. His cousin and Aunt 
Geraldine take his part, and I dare say they know more about 
him than most people.” 

“ I hardly fan(*y that even your Aunt Geraldine would consider 
his conduct to have been that of a highly-principled man,” he 
answers, coldly. “ Of course, if you are determined to look upon 
him in the light of an injured individual, I cannot prevent you ; but 
there was a time, not so very long ago, when people refused to 
acknowledge him as an acquaintance.” 

“And yet all these people, now that he has come into another 
large property, seem only too glad to welcome him even within the 
precincts of their private homes, ”'Theo says, with quiet sarcasm, 
while a sudden light gleams in her eyes, and she compresses her 
small mouth defiantly. 

“ Since his return I hear that he has signified his intention of 
altering his mode of life, which may perhaps account for the change 
in their demeanor,” Claude answers. “But, for all that, he will 
scarcely be able to live down the many former stories told against 
him.” ^ 

“You are a bitter enemy of his,” Miss Blake says; and Euthyn 
feels that he is only damaging his own cause without doing any good. 

“ No, I am not his enemy,” he explains, quickly j “ neither am I 


10 vs, LORD BERRESFORD. 47 

his frieDd, we are perfectly indifferent to each other. I simply do 
not consider him a fit associate for you.” 

“ Is he worth all this talk ? ” Miss Blake asks, impatiently. “ I 
would rather never have a friend than be spoken to like this. You 
asked me to dance, did you not ? Then pray let us dance, as any- 
thing is better than sitting here abusing our neighbors.” 

But after two rounds she sinks into a cushioned chair with a 
listless, weary air about her, very sad to see on her usually bright, 
happy face. 

About half an hour afterwards Lady Mostyn, coming across the 
room, asks her whether she has yet had enough of dancing ; and 
Miss Blake confessing for the first time in her life that she has 
had quite enough of it, her ladyship expresses her opinion that 
home is by far the best place for them ; and Theo having willingly 
concurred in this sentiment, they go. 

It is very broad daylight indeed, however, before she closes her 
eyes, miserable recollections and fancies hunting each other through 
her restless brain, and chasing all slumber from her tired lids. 

She finishes a very late breakfast, and, going down-stairs presently 
to the morning-room, finds there her aunt and young Charlie Chris- 
tian in high “confab.” 

“ I hope neither of you has the audacity to imagine for a moment 
that I am only just out of bed,” she commences, gravely. How 
d’ye do, Aunt Geraldine ? ” kissing her. “ Good-morning, Charlie.” 

“ Qoo^-afternoon, madam,” says young Christian. “ I was just 
telling your aunt that it was cruelty to animals on your part to 
vanish last night at the very moment when my favorite waltz with 
you was beginning.” 

“ Was it just beginning? ” Miss Blake asks, innocently. “ Then 
why did you not remind me of it ? Of course, had I only recollected 
that a waltz ^^ ith you was coming off, such is my opinion of your 
dancing that I should in all probability have been there now rather 
than have come away without it.” 

“ Ob, yes, lam sure of that,” the boy answers, blushing vividly, 
and looking intensely pleased, although he knows as well as she 
does that her compliment is all fun. 

“ One letter — two letters,” Theo says, taking up a brace of mis- 
sives that lie on the table before her; “ and both for me. I suppose 
you did not care to disturb me, Aunt Geraldine, by sending them 


48 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


up ? This is from papa, I know, hut I do not recognize this. Will 
you both think me fearfully rude if I go over to the window and 
satisfy my curiosity? ’’ breaking the seal, and walking towards the 
light as she speaks. There is silence for a moment, succeeded by 
the rustling of paper, as she turns the page, and then she emerges 
once more from among the window-curtains, her pretty face lit up 
with excitement^nd animation. 

“ Oh, Aunt Geraldine, here is something for you- to exert your 
energies upon. I must go to Todminster this evening, whatever 
happens.’^ 

“ My dear Theo,” exclaims Lady Mostyn, with all the emphasis 
she is capable of bestowing on her words, “ what are you saying?’^ 

“ Yes, I must go to Todminster this very evening,’^ declares Miss 
Blake, decisively. “ The letter is from Clarissa Saville, telling me 
she sails for India on Friday, and reminding me of my promise to 
spend her last day with her. You see, I cannot break my word to 
her. Aunt Geraldine; so do, like a darling, try to manage it for me.’’ 

“ It is now three o’clock, and I suppose you are not going to 
travel alone by the night mail ? ” says Lady Mostyn, with consid- 
erable dignity. Theo, will you never have sense? Do you not 
see the thing is an impossibility ? And surely, if your friend Miss 
Saville really did wish you to spend her last day with her, she 
could very well have written to you a week ago instead of the day 
before. ” 

“ But my dear Clarissa was ever and always a most enchanting 
little goose,” explains Miss Saville’s friend ; “ and geese never have 
any sense, so she is not, to be blamed. Besides, she wrote two 
days before, only I was not up in time, you see, to start by the 
morning train. Charlie, you look exactly as if you had something 
to suggest ; try, like a dear boy, to help me if you can. But, if you 
can’t, do take that exceedingly important expression off your 
face.” 

“ I am thinking,” says young Christian, “I am thinking. Miss 
Blake, that Mrs. Morley goes down every Wednesday to see her 
daughter, who is living at Bexton, which is just the last station 
before you come to Todminster, you know, and for some reason 
or other she generally travels by the night train. Would she 
do? Of course, she would be delighted to take care of you so far.” 

“ The very thing, ” cries Theo, eagerly. “There, Aunt Gerald- 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


49 


ine, you can say nothing after that, as Mrs. Morley is one of the 
sternest old moralists we know. Charlie, you are a rock of sense. 
Now, will you add to your kindness by taking a note at once from 
me to Aunt Geraldine^s moralist ? 

“Of course I will,^^ says little Christian, who would have gone to 
Central Africa cheerfully had she asked him ; “ if you write it now, 
I will get it there in no time.’^ 

“Theo, darling,” mildly suggests Lady Mostyn, who is com- 
pletely overpowered by Miss Blake^s manner, and totally incapable 
of putting a stop to her arrangements, “ would it not be better to 
send Lawson with it, and so save Charlie the trouble?” 

“No,” decides her niece, shaking her wilful little head over the 
writing-table, “ no, Aunt Geraldine. Knowing Charlie’s delightful 
suavity of manner, I have made up my mind that he shall plead for 
me, especially as I rather suspect Mrs. Morley w ill very probably 
object to taking charge of me at all.” 

“ If I thought that, my dear, I should certainly not go with her 
on any account were I you,” begins her ladyship, haughtily ; “and, 
besides ” 

“ Yes — no — I suppose so,” says Miss Blake, abstractedly, looking 
back over her letter. “ My dear Mrs. Morley : Would you be so kind 
— so kind — as to — Aunt Geraldine, if you interrupt me again I shall 
infallibly go wrong in my spelling.” After which admonition 
there is total silence on the part of the other two until the all-impor- 
tant note is finished ; when Theo despatches Charlie with it, giving 
him at the same time a number of reasons for the extreme necessity 
of her being in Todminster to-night. 

“In fact, make it a case of life or death,” concludes Miss Blake ; 
“because the horrid old woman detests me so, that she will cer- 
tainly get out of it if she can, so do not let her.” 

So instructed, young Christian sets oS* on his mission, returning 
triumphantly in about an hour, with his handsome, beardless face 
flushed like a peony from his unexpected success. 

“ It is all right. Miss Blake ; she was civility itself, and said she 
would be only too delighted, and all that, you know.” 

Some hours later Theo is seated opposite Mrs. Morley, in a first- 
class compartment all to themselves. Now that all the excite- 
ment of preparing for this journey is at an end, and as she com- 
prehends clearly that she is well on her way to Todminster, 

4 


LOYS, LORD RERRESRORD. 


50 

her natural flow of spirits suddenly subsides; and though 
she hates and despises herself for the weakness, still, some- 
how, sadness creeps up and kills her peace, leaving only the secret 
knowledge of how miserably she will miss Lord Berresford’s usual 
morning visit to-morrow. What will he think? she wonders. 
Will he understand how gladly she accepted this chance of escap- 
ing his presence fora few days? 

Mejm while, Mrs. Morley has sunk into a comfortable doze, out 
of which she is, aroused presently by the stoppage of the train and 
the guard’s voice informing the passengers that Bexton is reached. 
“ My dear,” she says to Theo the very instant she sits up after 
the deepest sleep mortal was ever blessed with, my dear, will you 
hand me my umbrella, which is just above your head? Ihank 
you, that is it. I am sopy I cannot go with you the entire way, 
very sorry indeed. Well, good-by, my dear ; I shall tell the guard 
to take care of you,” with which parting promise she says fare- 
well and disappears into the darkness. 

Theo is again sinking into thoughts half sweet, half bitter, when 
the door of the compartment once more opens, and she perceives a 
dark figure standing amidst the blackness of the night. It is the 
guard, she thinks, Mrs. Morley is evidently a woman of her w^ord, 
and, looking up to satisfy herself more perfectly about her new 
protector, she sees Loys Berresford* standing in the carriage. For 
a moment her breath fails, and every drop of blood in her body 
rushes wildly to her face, only to leave it again immediately, and 
then she murmurs : 

‘‘ Loys ! ” 

“Yes, it is actually myself,” he says, quite quietly, taking the 
vacant place beside her. “ I have surprised you.” 

“Why have you done this? You should not have done it,” the 
girl exclaims, with quivering lips, “when you know ” 

“ I know that as well as you do,” he interrupts ; “ but when have 
I ever achieved that which I ought to have achieved? Never, I 
fancy. So, when young Christian told me to-day, on his w^ay to 
Mrs Morley’s, that you were going to Todminster, I made up my 
mind that I would accompany you, and persuade you to break the 
resolution you formed last night.” 

“ Then I shall not listen to a word you say,” Theo says, with 
Spartan determination, putting up her hands to her ears. 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


51 


“ Nonsense ! laughs Loys, lightly, while he removes one of her 
hands, and holds it close prisoner in his own. “ How can you be 
so absurd, darling? Do you know, sometimes I fancy you are 
Minerva herself, and then immediately afterwards I discover that 
you are the veriest child of my acquaintance? Now, Theo, under- 
stand me. I will not leave you again until you have consented to 
become my wife. It is only a question of time, I know, so why 
make the end farther than it need be ? ” 

For all answer she draws away with a quick, impatient gesture 
and an angry sigh, the hand he has retained while speaking, while 
she almost vows in her own mind that she will speak with him no 
more ; but presently, glancing slowly upwards, though half against 
her will, she meets his intent gaze, and, as she looks, her eyes grow 
large and black with tears, while a forbidden sob, rising rebel- 
liously, half chokes her utterance, as, with wild, vehement bitter- 
ness, she says : 

“ Oh, Loys, Loys, I think my heart is breaking ! 

Something in the beautiful, passionate face, something in the 
words themselves, and more than all, something, perhaps, in the 
charm of the action with which she has, in her pain and in her dumb 
entreaty, replaced her hand in his, go straight to Loys’ heart. For a 
moment he fights a hard and desperate battle with himself, and 
then, he says, quietly and very sadly: 

“ My poor love, my poor little darling, have I been so cruel to 
you that you must needs speak of a broken heart ? It was enough 
that mine alone should break. What you cannot, or do not, say 
only makes us both miserable for life. And whom can you make 
happy? You would only drag any other man down to your level 
of misery. I urge you no further, Theo, but throw myself on fate. 
Let fate also decide for you, since fate may be kinder than hesita- 
tion. Take but this coin; twirl it in the air ; the crown-side fall- 
ing upwards means you are mine ; the opposite means we are lost 
to each other forever, doomed to perpetual separation and despair. 
There, our fortunes are in your own delicate hands. Toss the 
golden piece.” 

She raised her hand listlessly and with a despairing groan, and 
the glittering piece fell to the floor. 'T'hen she shuddered and 
shrank if she recoiled from some murdei'ops deed. Loys 


52 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


watched the coin settle on the floor, and as he saw the crown-side 
up, he rushed toward her. 

“ You are mine, my own ! ” he cries, a world of passionate relief 
and thankfulness in his voice, as he catches her hands in his. “ Oh, 
Theo, will you not say that you, too, are j<lad ? ” 

He gazes as he speaks into the fair beauty of her face, striving to 
read in her divine eyes an answering gladness to his own ; but he is 
unable to fathom the expression of her features, fear and relief and 
the fierce, wild joy surging up within her breast having proved more 
than her strength can bear. She draws away her hands, covering 
her pallid face with them, and bursts into a very storm of silent 
sobs. 

Frightened, shocked by the intensity of her emotion, he tries to 
soothe her, calling her by all the tender epithets his love suggests ; 
and finally, ere the train steams into the dreary station, he succeeds 
in restoring her to her wonted composure. 

“ Todminster ! ” announces one of the officials, as the engine 
slowly draAvs up to the platform. 

Loys finds the Saville carriage waiting for Miss Blake, and hav- 
ing seen to the luggage, places her in it, lingering for a moment 
before giving final directions to the coachman. 

“ Theo,” he says, softly, “ before I go you will say tome to-night, 
say to me now, ‘ Loys, I love you’ ? ” 

“Loys, I love you,” she answers, raising her head so that the 
moonbeams fall upon her marvellous loveliness ; and Loys bending 
a little foward, their lips meet, so sealing their strange betrothal. 

“ It is all over now,” thinks Miss Blake, as under the quiet stars 
the carriage rolls swiftly towards Saville Hall, “it is all quite 
over ; and I shall never be able to look my father in the face again. 
If any one had told me last year that I was born to be classed among 
those women who hav« eloped, and been looked down upon by the 
rest of the world, what should I have said, I wonder? I shall never 
have any claim on a good woman’s respect again — never. And yet 
— and yfet — for all the respect the world could shower upon me, I 
would not now give up Loys Berresford.” So, with his kiss still 
warm upon her lips. Miss Blake sits and thinks of him, her changed 
life, her father’s anger, and of many other things, until the stop- 
page of the carriage announces her arrival at the Hall ; and in 
aoother minute she is warmly clasped in Clarissa Saville’ s arms, 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


53 


CHAPTER IX. 

One week later and all London is ringing with the news of how 
Miss Blake has thrown over Mr. Ruthyn and eloped with Lord 
Berresford ; and many are the comments, innuendoes, and slighting 
words bestowed upon these two who have outraged Society so 
grossly. 

Miss Blake writes her Mher a short, imploring, pitiful letter, 
confessing all, and entreating earnestly that in time he will try to 
look upon her conduct in a more lenient light than she can dare to 
expect just at present ; and to Lady Mostyn she also addresses a 
somewhat longer though very similar letter ; the result of which 
correspondence is that Sir John, comes up post-haste to Lon- 
don, and immediately proceeds to abuse Lady Mostyn, as^ much 
as it is in that kindly old gentleman’s nature to abuse any one. 

“I assure you,” protests poor Lady Geraldine, when at last he 
gives her an opportunity for speech, “ I assure you, John, I saw 
no more of it than if I had been residing at the antipodes.” 

‘•'And, bless my soul, Geraldine, is not that the very thing I am 
blaming you for?” exclaims Sir John, in a high state, of indig- 
nation. 

“ If you were blind or deaf I could make some allowance for your 
neglect, but as it was — as it was,” continues Sir John, waxing very 
wroth and striding fiercely up and down the room, “I could 
almost find it in my heart to call you a fool.” 

“ cou can call me what you please,” answers her ladyship, by 
this lime in a towering rage herself, “you are a man, while I am 
only a woman, and you are quite at liberty, no doubt, to call me 
whatever names you choose; but really ” 

“ Oh, well, well,” Sir John interrupts her, apologetically, “ I did 
not mean that, of course ; you understand, my dear, that I was 
only wondering how a woman of your extreme good sense could 
have been so thoroughly hoodwinked. I was simply thinking ” 

“ It does not matter in the very least what you were thinking,” 
exclaims, Aunt Geraldine, impatiently ; “ the question is about this 
unhappy business. It is more than unfortunate ; and I must say 
'—although she is my own niece, and you know how fond I was of 


54 LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 

her — that, of all the deceitful girls I ever met with, Theo is the 
worst.” 

“ She is not,” contradicts Sir John. “I never found her deceit- 
ful or underhanded in any way; she was always a good girl, a 
darling girl, and it was all that depraved villain’s fault from 
beginning to end. I know that in the long run he will ill-treat 
her, the scoundrel ! Tell me, Geraldine, you may as well at once, 
what sort of man my son-in-law is ! ” 

“Well, he is handsome, you know,” begins her ladyship, 
eagerly, trying nervously to recollect all Berresford’s best points, 
in the hope of making her own negligence in the aflair thereby 
appear lighter. 

“ H’ln ! ‘ handsome is as handsome does,’ ” growls the old man 
defiantly, perfectly unappeased by the mention of Lord Berres- 
ford’s appearance. “A Satanic sort of face, I suppose? Poor?” 

“ No, quite the contrary, one of the richest men in England 
since his uncle’s death, and of a very old family. His father 
was ” 

“Oh, never mind his father!” says Sir John. “Much good his 
family will do my poor girl when he begins to abuse her, as he is 
sure to do sooner or later. But what are we to do in the matter, 
Geraldine? How are we to get her away from him? Have you 
thought of any plan, eh ? ” 

“Plan !” echoes the astonished Lady Mostyn. “No, indeed I 
have not. What would be the use of concocting one when I know 
she would not leave him? And really,” with considerable hesita- 
tion, “ when one comes to think of it, I do not see why she should, 
because, on the whole, you know, John, he is a very nice young 
man.” 

“A nice young man !” exclaims the irascible old baronet, with 
undisguised contempt. “I am astonished at you, Geraldine, I am, 
to see you supporting, aganst your conscience, the character of a man 
who must be, and I have no doubt is, a most consummate villain.” 

“He is nothing of the kind,” her ladyship answers, angrily, who 
five minutes previously has been vilifying Loys to her heart’s con- 
tent ; “he is a perfect gentleman in every respect, rich, handsome, 
and well bred ; just a little wild, perhaps, but every man is that 
more or less until he settles down. I think matteis might have 
been decidedly worse, and it is much better for you to make the 


LOYS, LORD BERRESPORD. 55 

best of it than to go on fuming as you are now doing without the 
faintest result.” 

“ If I had not sent her up to London this would not have hap- 
pened,” rather ungenerously retaliates Sir John; “and what the 
deuce am I to say to that poor Ruthyn when I see him ? ” 

“ Do not see him at all,” suggests her ladyship. 

“I suppose I must see him some time or other before I die; and 

then Well, Geraldine, if any fellow had told me a year ago 

that my girl would have treated me in such a manner, I should 
have knocked him down, I should, upon my honor.” 

“ Then I am very glad nobody did tell you,” his sister answers, 
quietly. And Sir John resumes his promenade, restless and angry 
as it is, up and down the room. At last he turns again towards 
the arm-chair in which Lady Mostyn is sitting, lost in thought, 
and says, in deep agitation : “ For heaven’s sake, Geraldine, suggest 
something — anything, in preference to sitting there like that with, 
your hands before you. When I think of that child’s ungrateful, 
disgraceful conduct I am ready to go mad. To deceive us all so 
shamefully! I shall never forgive her, never! But, for all that 
how can I leave her in the hands of this reprobate, who will, in all 
probability, break her gentle heart? My poor darling ! Did she 
send you her address ? ’ ’ 

No ; she sent me no clue to her whej*eahouts whatever, but says 
they will travel for six months. Look here, John,” rising, as she 
speaks, and linking her arm in his, “ it is no use your going on in 
this way. For the first two days I fretted my life out also; but 
soon, seeing how little good it was likely to do me, I gave it up. 
The man is a gentleman, it is enough to see him to know that, and 
with a girl like Theo, to whom he is devoted, he cannot fail to 
become a good man. So take courage, and look the thing fairly in 
the face, and I feel certain in the end all will be well.” 

“Geraldine, if I could only catch that Loys Berresford this 
instant, I would ” 

“You would think him, justly, one of the most charming men 
you ever met,” interrupts Geraldine, unceremoniously. “Don’t 
be a goose, John^ but go away directly, and prepare for dinner or 
the soup will be cold.” 

To Claude Ruthyn Theo has sent neither letter nor message but 
to Aunt Geraldine, somewhat later, she despatches his ring, that it 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


56 

may be through her returned to him, a task her ladyship by no 
means appreciates. 

After this the days pass rapidly and monotonously as usual, the 
only difference being that letters from liudy Berresford both to her 
father and aunt become more and more frequent. In one of them, 
with fear and trembling, she mentions her address, and receives 
by return of post a letter from her father more reproachfully loving 
than it is possible to imagine, which same epistle has the effect of 
causing her little graceless ladyship’s heart to sing aloud for joy, 
and which she carries in her bosom for many a day after, sleeping 
at night with it under her pillow. Indeed, from that day forth 
her cup of happiness seems quite full, and she and Loys dream 
away the tranquil, sunny hours under the bright Italian skies until 
the summer and autumn are well-nigh spent and both their 
thoughts turn longingly homewards. 

CHAPTER X. 

It is six months since Theo Blake took the daring step that made 
her Lady Berresford, and the London world has once more welcomed 
graciously to its bosom the beautiful, fascinating girl who had 
charmed all hearts about half a year before. Then, possibly, they 
were very jealous of her; but now — now — in spite of her great 
crimes and misdemeanors, this charming Lady Berresford is rich 
and prosperous and beautiful; so that, overlooking all her faults, 
dowagers with marriageable daughters and dowagers with no 
daughters at all fall down indiscriminately and worship her. 

With her father she has had little trouble, he having, once he 
had caught sight of the exquisite pleading face,forgotten all back 
injuries, with their accompanying heartaches, and received her 
gladly once more as his only and well-beloved child. It was in 
Aunt Geraldine’s drawing-room that these two who so dearly loved 
each other were reunited ; and when Theo, with sweet penitence, 
entered the room. Sir John — though he had for two hours before 
been lecturing himself into a proper frame of mind wherein to receive 
her — could think of nothing, but took her simply in his arms, kiss- 
ing her with almost more than the old warmth. 

“Theo, how could you do it?” he had said, a little chidingly, 
perhaps, but very tenderly ; and she replied ; 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 57 

“ Darling, do not blame me; see, this is Loys,” as though in him, 
her husband, lay all the excuse that need be given. 

The two men had, as the common expression goes, taken to each 
other. Sir John finding it impossible with his genial nature to 
resist the charm of Berresford’s manner ; and so in the end all went 
“ merry” as the marriage bells ” that ought to have rung at Theo 
Blake’s wedding, but didn’t ! 

It is Tuesday night, and the Berresfords are alone in their draw- 
ing-room after dinner. Theo stands gazing -dreamily into the fire. 
Presently his wife comes slowly towards him with a curiously settled 
expression on her face. She puts her arms around his neck lovingly, 
saying in a pretty, soft, low tone: 

“Loys, I am not quite happy.” 

“Not quite happy,” Loys repeats, examining with wonder the 
little troubled face turned so beseechingly to his. “ Why, what 
can have happened to disturb my pet’s equanimity?” 

‘‘Oh, no, no. Now, do be sensible my own Loys, and listen to 
me ; I want your help so much.” 

“Very well, then, I will be a second Solomn upon the spot ; and 
I pledge myself both to listen and help you — there! ” 

“ That’s a dear boy ; and now 1 will tell what I have been dying 
to disclose all through dinner. Guess,” hesitating here, and turn- 
ing the gold stud in his shirt round and round with small, shy 
fingers, “guess who I saw to-day when driving in the Park ? ” 

“The Emperor of China?” suggests Loys. “Was his majesty 
enchanted to see you ? ” 

“Now, Loys,” reproachfully, “is that being sensible? No, 
you would never guess ; so I may as well tell you. It was Claude 
Ruthyn. And oh, darling,’’ raising sweet, pathetic eyes, heavy 
with pitying tears, “he looked so haggard, so tired and miserable, 
that I scarcely knew him. He caught a glimpse of me as I was 
passing ; and the shadow of pain that darkened his face I shall never 
forget — it nearly broke my heart.” Which little speech, proving 
too much for Lady Berresford, she finishes by falling into bitter 
sobbing. 

“ My dearest,” whispers Loys, tenderly caressing her, and try- 
ing to soothe her remorse, “ it was not your fault, it was entirely 
mine from first to last. Cheer up, and do not take it so mucfi to 
heart but let us see what is best to be doue about him,’^ 


58 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


“ I felt so wicked, you know,” Theogoes on, wiping her eyes with 
Loys’ handkerchief, “ quite like a murderer, or — or a garroter, or 
something. I felt I had no right to be as happy as I was, and there 
has been a heavy load upon my conscience ever since. Will you 
not tell me what I had better do, Loys^” 

“You shall do whatever your own heart advises,” Berresford 
answers, changing the careless, provoking tone he had first used 
for one of quiet interest. “ You will not be very far wrong, I fancy, 
if you follow its dictation.” 

“ Well, I think,” Theo says, “ if you were to find out his office and 
drive me there to-morrow I should like to see him alone for a little 
while, to make my peace and persuade him to think less hardly 
of me. You could send the carriage for me in an hour, as I am 
sure by that time I could make him feel better about it. Will you do 
all this for me, Loys ? ” 

Of course I will, child, this, or anything else you like,” he 
answers, heartily. “You shall say everything you please to satisfy 
him, and make the poor victim more hopelessly in love with you 
than ever — which is generally the result with regard to this style 
of thing, is it not? In fact, you shall do everything you like but 
kiss him ; and I swear, if you do that, I shall get a divorce.” 

“ Don’t, Loys,” she says, laughing hysterically in spite of herself, 
“how can you?” Then, putting her arms around his neck again, 
and giving him a grateful hug, she continues: “You are the best 
of darlings — a dear, kind love ; and I can never thank you enough.” 

So the next morning, true to his word, Berresford takes his wife 
to Claude Ruthyn’s office beguiling the way thither by informing 
her that, in his opinion, she is a woman possessed of considerable 
pluck, as it is highly probable Ruthyn will murder her in cold 
blood on account of her former conduct, and advising her strongly to 
hire half a dozen of the force to listen outside the door for the 
first sounds of assault and battery. 

With such useful conversation — indulged in for the express pur- 
pose of raising his wife’s spirits, which have sunk to zero — he 
whiles away the time until the carriage draws up at the desired 
quarter, when he leaves her with the parting injunction “ to be sure 
and take up a good position near the poker, as she will not be ruled 
by him and employ the police ; ” which latter piece of advice falls 
unnoticed upon Theo’s ears as with a beating heart she ascends the 


LO vs, I. ORD BERRESFORD. 59 

staircase and is shown into a spacious room, where, amidst a pile 
of papers, sits her former lover, busily writing. 

As the door closes behind her with an uncompromising bang 
poor Theo gives herself up for lost, feeling not quite certain 
whether she is going to cry or faint, hut, gathering up her courage 
with a strong effort, like the brave little woman she is, she looks 
up imploringly, and so meets Claude Ruthyn’s gaze. 

He has risen, and is standing at a few yards’ distance from her 
looking pale and worn, but rather handsomer than ever, his breath 
coming short and quick as he sees before him the woman on whom 
he has lavished all the treasures of his warm heart, and who in 
return so shamefully wronged him. 

“Theo — Lady Berreslord ? ” he says, with a mad attempt to 
control his emotion, which attempt only terminates in a signal, 
failure, because, seeing once more before him the face, with the 
rare, sweet beauty he has loved so well, all the courage of his 
manhood forsakes him, and flinging himself back into the chair 
from which he has just risen, he buries his face on his arms, and 
sobs such bitter, hopeless, despairing sobs as Theo prays she may 
never hear again. . 

“Cfaude! Claude!” Theo cries, hurriedly, running over and 
kneeling down beside him, “ Claude, listen to me, pray listen to 
me.” After which she pleads in the old sweet voice, for forgive- 
ness, explaining little, and proving less, but, womanlike, exhibit- 
ing her own conduct in a wholly pitiable light. He takes no 
notice of her, however, either by word or look, and presently, in 
the very midst of one of her prettiest pieces of eloquence, pushes 
back his chair abruptly, and, rising, walks over to one of the 
windows, taking up his position there, as though unwilling to turn 
and confront the woman before whom he has just now so cruelly 
humiliated himself. 

Theo stands where he has left her, in the centre of the room, 
wishing oh, so earnestly ! in her heart of hearts that she were back 
once more in her cosey boudoir, far away from this man whom she 
has injured, and who is now stationed with his back towards her 
in such an unceremonious attitude. Suddenly, he turns and says, 
in a voice so cold, so clear and stern as almost to make Theo believe 
that his last few minutes of self-abandonment had never been: 

“ May I ask what has brought you here to-day ? ’ ’ 


6o 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


“I am sure I don’t know,” Theo answers, dejectedly, beginning 
to feel decidedly small. “ I wish I did know. I suppose I was 
foolish enough to imagine I could do some good ; but unhappily, 
it did not occur to me that the only feeling you could possibly 
euteitain for me now must be hatred, after all that has passed. I 
suppose I also fancied that my coming here to-day to confess 
myself in the wrong would be some slight reparation for all the 
pain I haye caused you. I see now that I have made a mistake.” 

“Reparation ! ” he repeats, with contemptuous scorn. ‘‘And do 
you imagine for a moment that the mere fact of your presence in 
this room can compensate me for the blighting of my whole life ? 
You must think reparation a very easy matter! ” 

“ No, I do not think it easy, you mistake me,” she explains, 
hurriedly. “ I know I have done you the greatest wrong a woman 
can do a man, a wrong that the sacritice of my whole existence 
could scarcely atone for ; but — but, for the sake of the old Theo 
whom you once loved, Claude, be friends with me,” moving a few 
steps nearer and holding out her hands entreatingly. 

“ Friends! ” he says, bitterly, taking no notice of her little out- 
stretched fingers beyond stepping backwards and folding his arms 
doggedly, “ I fail to understand the meaning of that term when 
applied to you and me. I am Claude Ruthyn, and you are Lady 
Berresford ; while the Theo Blake whom I once knew and — loved 
has been dead and buried for many a day.” 

“Then you will not accept my friendship?” she says, still hum- 
bly. “I suppose I ought to expect no kinder answer ; but yet I 
think ” 

“ I think you have strangely forgotten yourself in coming here 
at all to-day,” he interrupts her, sternly. “Had I only known of 
your intention, I would never have seen you ; and I am sorry that 
on my account you should have put yourself to so much incon- 
venience. Besides, this is no place for you — shall I order your 
carriage?” 

“So you turn me out ! ” she says, proudly, turning slowly away. 
“I confess I hardly expected that. As my carriage will not be 
here for twenty minutes, will you order me a cab ? ” 

“ No, no ! ” he exclaims, hastily, shocked at his seeming rude- 
ness and the interpretation she has put upon his words ; “ you know 
I did not mean that. This room, with everything in it, is quite at 


LOVS, LORD BERRESFORD, * 6l 

your service as long as you wish to remain. You must be very 
cold ; do let me persuade you to come over to the fire, and sit there 
until your carriage arrives,” wheeling on to the hearth-rug, as he 
speaks, a comfortable arm-chair, in which she seats herself silently 
without further comment. 

He stirs the coals until they blaze and crackle with unwonted 
gayety, after which he goes back to the pile of papers from which 
he had risen on her first appearance, and begins to write with 
extreme and business-like rapidity, his pen creating a faint, irri- 
tating noise through the dreary silence of the room as it moves 
with eager speed across the parchment; but, for all that, somehow 
his writing for the next five minutes does him small good here- 
after, either in or out of his profession. 

Theo meanwhile sits quietly, with her elbow on her knee, her 
head resting on her hand, thinking vaguely and rather disconnect- 
edly of many things. When will that carriage come? she wonders. 
How slow it is! Could Loys have forgotten? Ah, how changed 
Claude’s manner is, and how kind he used to be! How can she 
ever summon up courage enough to tell Loys of the failure of this 
her favorite scheme ? And finally she asks herself with painful 
nervousness, will Claude shake hands with her when she is bidding 
him farewell ? 

“Will you allow me to get you a glass of wine. Lady Berres- 
ford ? ” Ruthyn asks — he has come over from his papers unheard, 
and is standing close beside her. 

“No, thank you,” she answers, with a perceptible start, though 
scarcely changing her position, merely turning her head towards 
him, so that her chin is resting on her hand, and thereby display- 
ing to the best of advantage, albeit most unconsciously, her beauti- 
ful, sorrowing eyes that shine up at him with misty lustre, though 
half drowned in unshed tears. 

He goes back no more to his writing, but, turning towards the 
chimney-piece, rests his arm upon it, contemplating moodily the 
fitful fire that glows and sparkles beneath his gaze as though in 
mockery of his misery. 

Good heavens ! what a wretched, useless thing his life has 
seemed for the last six months, so dull, so spiritless ! And here 
was she looking — oh, how beautiful ! how sweet and happy ! 
Yes; there can be little doubt about her happiness, he thinks; her 


62 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


very step and voice betoken the satisfied, contented woman ; while 
he — oh, if things could but be difiereut, if Theo Berresford could 
only be Theo Euthyn instead of what she now is, how calm and 
tranquil and rose-tinged all his years might be ! Then he falls to 
fancying the little figure, seated so silently in the large arm-chair 
before him, his own in reality, his wife, the being whom on 
earth he worships most fondly, and tries to imagine she has come 
here this evening to take him back to their happy home, and charm 
him away from his deeds and parchments with the old coaxing 
ways he used to love so well. 

But all in vain he dreams ; the sweet vision will not linger with 
him, fading away relentlessly into the present pain, while Elaine’s 
tenderest of all tender, moans comes home unbidden to his mind, 
and sings its little plaintive burden to his aching heart: 

“ Sweet is true love though given in vain — in vain ; 

And sweet is death that puts an end to pain : 

I know not which 4s sweeter, — no, not I. 

“ Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be. 

Love, thou art bitter,— sweet is death to me; 

Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die.” 

With a muttered exclamation he rouses himself impatiently 
from this dismal train of thought, and, changing his position 
slightly, so that his gaze falls upon Theo this time instead of the 
mocking fire, contemplates her attentively. 

The room they are in is large and bandwSbme and luxuriously 
furnished, but “the day i^fcold and dark and dreary,” so that 
there is very little light to enliven the dullness of their thoughts 
beyond the restless tongues of fire that every now and then flare 
up, making the “darkness visible.” 

Theo still sits in her old position, her chin resting on her small 
gloved hand, totally unconscious of Euthyn’s fixed contemplation. 
Her thoughts, like his, have roamed away into the dreary past, 
and old memories of bygone times rise with bitter sweetness in her 
heart, blotting out completely for the moment all remembrance of 
her present living happiness. The last year dies away ; Euthyn, 
with his true, warm affection, is once more her accepted lover, and 
so on, and on, and on, until she, too, awakes with a pang to the 
recollection df how cruelly he has been treated, and then two 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 63 

bright tears slowly detach themselves from her eyes, falling with 
a tiny splash upon her dress. 

Claude’s brow contracts with pain, and he' moves uneasily ; but, 
when two more tears gather, and following their predecessors, find 
refuge also on the silken ground^ he can stand it no longer, but, 
coming quickly forward, he seizes both her hands, saying, huskily: 

“Don’t do that, Theo, do anything but that! I was unkind — 
brutal — to you a few minutes ago, I know ; but I was out of my 
mind, — maddened by seeing you unexpectedly after so long a time. 
I will say or do whatever you wish now, only never let me see you 
cry again. Oh, child, child, what spirit of evil induced you to 
come here at all to-day ? ” 

“ Not a spirit of evil, — a good spirit. I could not bear to see 
you looking as you looked y^esterday,” she says, hanging her head 
sorrowfully with the old childish grace of manner full upon her ; 
“and — and — I fancied if I came y<.'U might learn to hate me less.” 

“If it will be the slighest consolation or comfort to you,” he 
returns, after a troubled pause, “ you may believe me when I say 
that I never have hated and never can hate you.” 

“ Then why not forgive and be friends with me ?” she asks, 
pleadingly. 

“ I do forgive you with all my heart and soul ; but, as to being 
friends — oh, Theo,” he breaks out, passionately, “do you know 
what to be a friend means ? And do you think me a dog, or a 
stone, that, with all my old love still full upon me, I could see you 
day after day the wife of another man and endure the pain ? 1 
could not, it is too much do expect of me.” 

“ And you prefer sitting here in solitude nursing this fancy?” 
cries she, eagerly. “ Ah, believe me, that is no way to get over it. 
Listen to me, Claude ; if you just once made up your mind to see 
much of me and study my character closely, without the former 
blindness, you would soon discover so many faults and shortcom- 
ings in it that you would be disenchanted in no time. Why, there 
are hundreds of girls in this very London, ten times prettier and 
sweeter, and far, far piore worthy of you than I could ever have 
been, whom I feel certain you w ould like, if you would only try to 
shake off this foolish misanthropic feeling you have encouraged 
lately, and mix with them. After seeing them you would soon for- 
get me, and learn to be happy,” 


64 


LOYS, LORD BERRESLORD. 


“ Should I ? ” with a half smile. “ I hardly think so. Your advice 
might be very excellent for some men, but it scarcely suits me. 
You see, Theo, when a man of my habits, who has spent all the 
earlier years of his life in hard study, falls in love, his case is gen- 
erally very hopeless indeed. ” 

‘‘ But it would not be hopeless if you only tried to overcome it,’’ 
Lady Berresford argues, persistently, and ceased to consider me 
the most perfect creature upon earth. Come, now,” coaxingly, “ I 
am going to give a ball on the eighteenth, and before I go you will 
promise to come to it, will you not ? Ah, no,” seeing he is about 
to refuse, “you will not disappoint me in this, you will not send 
me away feeling that my visit has done no good;” and as she 
pleads the tears he dreads so much rise once more from the depths 
of her loving heart. 

“ Theo,” he says, distractedly, seeing them glistening in the 
sweet gray eyes, and beginning to think himself a hardened brute, 
“ do not look so miserable. I will go, I will do anything you ask 
me, rather than be the cause of a moment’s grief to you.” 

“Ah. now I believe you are indeed friends with me,” she says, 
with a happy smile ; and just at this stage of the proceedings a ser- 
vant opens the door and announces that “ her ladyship’s carriage 
is waiting for her.” 

“ Very good,” Theo answers, rising as she speaks, and looking up 
at Euthyn. “ I have your promise, remember; and I shall send 
ynu a card for the eighteenth. Claude, you have made me far hap- 
pit^r in my mind than I at all deserve, I know that. And now will 
you shake hands with me ? You would not, you know, when first 
I came in,” holding out her hand to him, with a charming smile. 

“Would I not?” he asks, with an answering smile, retaining 
her hand, but flushing a little as bespeaks. “ I was mad, I think. 
Still, I can never thank you sufficiently for coming here, as your 
very presence has done me niore good than I can tell you.” 

“ And I am quite forgiven ? ” Theo asks. 

“ Yes, you are quite forgiven,” he answers, stooping to im- 
press two kisses on the little hand still lying in his own ; after 
which he takes her down stairs, and puts her into the carriage 
very carefully and gratefully. Then, giving the word to the 
coachman, he returns to his lonely chambers, if a sad, still a 
younger and happier man than he has been for many a month. 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD. 


65 


CHAPTER XI. 

That evening, as Lady Berresford is dressing for dinner, her 
husband knocks at her bedroom door; and as she murmurs “ Come 
in” in her pretty clear voice, he enters eagerly, looking very hand- 
some and provoking, as he exclaims, with a deep sigh of pretended 
relief : 

“ So, you are safe. Well, you cannot think what a comfort your 
voice was to me; I really quite feared to knock, lest I might 
receive no answer, as I should then have understood at once that 
you were numbered with the dead. So he let you off? Well, I 
am astonished at his clemency ; or perhaps you took my advice, 
and brained him with the poker, eh ? Which was it ? Tell 
me, though, seriously,— how did it go off?'’ 

“Beautifully,” declares Theo, with enthusiasm. She is stand- 
ing on the hearth-rug, opposite the fire, in a white covering of 
some sort with her fair brown hair all down, and is looking the 
very picture of loveliness. “That is rather badly in the beginning 
you know, but perfectly in the end. And what do you think, 
Loys ? He has actually consented to come to our ball on the eigh- 
teenth !” 

“ He 7ia8.'” says Berresford, feeling slightly disconcerted at this 
latter intelligence. “ Well, now that you have arranged all your 
own programme, perhaps your royal highness will be kind enough 
to explain mine.” 

“ Oh, you — ^you must receive him rather cordially, you know — 
not too coldly, and not too warmly, that is ; and then leave the 
rest to me. Poor fellow, he was dreadfully upset when first i 
entered, so much so, indeed, that I began to feel quite miserable.” 

“Quite like a murderer, or — or a garroter,” puts in Loys, imi- 
tating her manner of the night before. “ Well, as he has not slain 
you outright, I owe him a debt of gratitude ; I never expected to 
see you alive again. He behaved uncommonly creditably. ” 

“ Yes, he was quite tame,” Theo says ; then, mischievously- 
“ But you forgot to ask me one thing, Loys. You forgot to ask if 
he kissed me. And he did, there!” 

5 


66 


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, 


“ Kifiscd you ! ’’ echoes Loys. 

“ Yes, kissed me, not only once, but twice, and without permis- 
sion, too,’’ with a merry, ringing laugh. 

“And have you the audacity, you disgraceful young person,” 
says Loys, “to stand there boldly, before your injured husband, 
and confess to such a crime ^ Well, you know the consequences : 
I shall immediately procure a divorce, if there be justice in this 
land.” 

“Do,” merrily; “you cannot think what a relief it will be to 
my wounded feelings, only — only I am afraid you will not gain 
your point, as it was merely my hand he kissed.” 

“Ah, was that all ?” in a disappointed tone. 

“ We must get all the prettiest girls we can muster for our ball,” 
Lady Berresford says, presently. “ I think Kate Blount would be 
the very girl for him, would she not ? ” 

“ Can’t say, I am sure,” Berresford answers; “ask her. I have 
not the remotest idea on the subject, and can only say I pity him 
if he has fallen into your match-making hands.” 

“Ah, but I am in earnest, Loys,” his wife says, eagerly, putting 
her hand through his arm, and glancing up into his face with sweet, 
shy grace ; “ I want very much to marry him to some really 
charming girl whom he can love, and who would make him happy, 
because you know, darling, he loved me once, and he is very lonely 
now.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” Loys murmurs, almost remorsefully, kissing ten- 
derly the precious, upturned face, and comprehending thoroughly 
now — for perhaps the first time — what an irreparable injury he 
has done Claude Ruthyn. 


THE END. 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE; 

A Tale of Two Manors. 


BY THE ^^DUCHESS.’’ 


CHAPTER I. 

“So, for the sake of a paltry ten-pound note, I must stay away 
from the only ball 1 ever cared to go to!” exclaimed Miss Blount, 
indignantly. “Well, 1 must say I think it hard— very hard— more 
than most girls of my age would bear,” — concluding her slightly 
mutinous speech with hurried bitterness, and turning aside to the 
window as an ominous rising in her throat gave warning that it was 
high time her eloquence should come to an end. 

“Eh? Well? What are you complaining of now, Kate?” de- 
manded the person addressed, raising his head abstractedly from the 
paper he was studying, with that far-away look in his face whicli 
most people acquire when their thoughts are in the clouds, an>l 
which is, of all expressions, the most aggravating to those on the 
watch for sympathy. “Oh, that everlasting ball of the Tauntons, 
eh? Well, 1 told you before it could not be, you know, and that 
should be sufficient. Stop that devil’s-tattoo on the window-pane, 
will you, unless you want to give me a headache with your restless- 
ness!” 

“But why cannot I go?” the girl went on, persistently, facing the 
enemy once more as she spoke. “I don’t very often ask you for 
money, as you must allow, and ” 

“It is utterly out of the question, ” interrupted her father, lan- 
guidly, “so put it out of your head once for all. I could not let vou 
have a farthing just now — even supposing it were a matter of life 
or death — being as hard up as T well can be; my usual condition, 
bytheby. Look here, Katherine! if Barrington calls while T am 


2 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


away, send him up to the square field, will you, where I am going 
about those partridges? Come, Belle, Gallant, get up, you lazy 
brutes!” — disturbing with his foot, as he finished speaking, two 
magnificent pointers as they lay dozing beside his chair. 

The coolness of the refusal, knowing, as she did, how idly and 
selfishly her father’s money was spent, together with his whole 
bearing, roused Miss Blount’s quick temper beyond control. 

‘Tt would be better for you to give up your hunters and dogs, and 
dress your daughter properly, than to go on living beyond your 
means in the dishonorable way you are now doing!” she cried, pas- 
sionately, her fine eyes flashing. 

“That is just one of the many points on which you and I so totally 
disageee,” Archibald Blount answered pleasantly, no whit moved 
from his usual calm, gentlemanly demeanor by his daughter’s vehe- 
mence, moving indolently out of the room as he concluded, and 
closing the door with almost womanly gentleness behind him. 

When he was gone, the girl clinched her small hands tightly to- 
gether to keep down the rebellious tears, and, leaning her head back 
against the shutter, strove hard to suppress the feelings that rose so 
angrily within her. 

As she thus stood, bc-ttling bravely with her thoughts, the dazzlihg 
August sun shgne brightly down upon her, flushing her hair and 
face and figure with its gay warmth, so as literally to frame her in 
its yellow gold, — and a very beautiful little face it was to frame, 
richly tinted, changeable and passionate, expressing only too clearly 
at times the secret workings of her heart. Her eyes were singularly 
lovely, of a fine deep hazel, large and sometimes touching in their 
pathos; albeit it must be confessed that she was by no means angelic 
in her tendencies, her celestial qualities being decidedly few and far 
between, and heavily blended with our coarser earth besides. Her 
mouth was not small, nor was it perfect, and her color was an un- 
mistakable gipsy-brown ; but for all that she was as sweet and lovable 
and perverse a creature as ever decorated the earth or broke the 

heart of man. • -ri f • 

Numerous were the victinis who cried for quarter to Mis? oun , 
indeed, she had it very much her own way with the sterner sfex, ew 
being able to withstand her tender, wild, childish beauty, even y 
veterans giving in hopelessly to the little queen who thinne eir 
ranks so mercilessly. Old and young, grave and gay, succum e 
without a murmur to her smiles. 


St^EET IS TRUE LOVE, 


3 

With women, however, she scarcely got on so well, her exquisite, 
unsatisfied face being no passport to their favor. They could see no 
charm in it for their part, — voted her ‘‘odd — peculiar — horribly fast 
— barely good-looking, ” according to each speaker’s own view of the 
case, and sought to “keep her down” with all their might, though to 
no purpose; for, after employing all the energy they were capable 
of to reduce her to the common level, they were fain to confess that 
Katherine heeded them not. She lived her life alone, careless of 
their approbation or the reverse, and but for Harriet Charteris would, 
in all probability, have possessed no female friend. 

Her father, Archibald Blount, was cold, worldly, and selfish to the 
heart’s core. No love for his beautiful child ever warmed or brigh- 
tened the stagnant feelings of his breast; she was there — before his 
eyes— the living image of her dead mother, but to him she was little 
more than an encumbrance, the unwished for consequence of a re- 
gretted marriage. 

It was small wonder the girl should, under the circumstances, pay 
but little outward respect to his wishes or commands, though in her 
inmost heart there lay hidden for him a lasting love, far stronger than 
even she herself believed could possibly have existed for the father 
who held her in such slight estimation, and spent his time in racing 
or betting, or gambling away the small income — a remnant of his 
once princely fortune — that sufficed to keep them from utter desti- 
tution. 

She was a neglected flower, a tender creature growing up unheed- 
ed and unloved, at least by him who ought to have been her chief 
counsellor, but who, if ever he bestowed a thought upon her, dream- 
ed only of the time when her marvellous beauty should procure her 
a wealthy suitor, and so bring him the only thing he really cared for, 
— money. Small wonder was it either if Katherine Blount herself 
discovered early an intense longing for money, for the wealthy free- 
dom that should at all hazards release her from the influence of 
poverty and its attendant curses. 

Leaning back, now, with her head against the wood-work of the 
window, she almost swore to herself that no love-dreams should come 
between her and her hopes of earthly riches; and, as she so thought 
with bitter earnestness, her revery was suddenly broken in upon by 
the entrance of a young man of about four-and-twenty, who, com- 
ing over to the window, sank lazily into a chair directly opposite to 
her. For a moment he gazed wonderingly at the girl’s half averted 


4 


SWEET IS 7IWE LOVE. 


sorrowful face, whereon the recent tears had left their silent tracers i, 
after which scrutiny he inquired, without any very great regai-d to 
the selection of his language, — 

‘‘What’s up?” 

“For goodness’ sake, why can not you speak proper JWnglish?” 
Miss Blount asked, pettishly, glancing swiftly round from the win- 
dow as she spoke. “What’s up — now how am I to understand what 
you mean by that, unless” — with a short laugh — “you meant my 
temper? That is ‘up’ to all intents and purposes, I allow you. Did 
you mean it?” 

“No, my dear, I did not,” the young man answered, calmly: “I 
am only anxious to learn what it is that has grieved you during my 
absence. Will you tell me?” 

“What is the use?*’ Miss Blount inquired, still with the sense of 
injury full upon her. “You cannot help me, and most probably, if 
I told you my grievance, would only consider me silly. All men 
consider a girl frivolous if she happens to wish for a littie more than 
the common necessaries of life.” 

“There is an exception to every rule, so put me out of that list,” 
her companion answered, getting up from his seat and possessing 
himself of one of the little nervous hands that for v:he past few 
minutes had been endeavoring most laudably to work a hole in the 
handkerchief they held. “1 do not belong to it, as/i. could hardly 
think you frivolous even if I tried, or — or anything else unpleasant, 
I fancy; so tell me your misfortune, and let me assht yoiiif I can.” 

“Well, it is all about the Tauntons’ ball,'” the girl miirmiire 1, 
softened by his evident sympathy, and reddening furiously the 
while, but refusing, crimson nevertheless, to remove her eyes from 
his. “I cannot go because I have no dress nice enaugh, and papa 
will not give me a new one — that is all ; so now conicss at once that 
you think me ridiculous, and have done with it.” 

“Poor little thing!” was all the other said, but hivJ eyes wandered 
out to the glowing garden, whither his thoughts followed, running 
riot among the flowers, as he concocted all sorts of schemas for the 
express purpose of gratifying Katherine's last whim. Of course 
she should have a dress, but who would choose it fov him, and wli'en 
chosen, how should lie persuade her to accept It? And then he 
wondered what color would oe most Oecoming to i,he perplexed lit- 
tle beauty at his side; after which he got puzzled, and fell to won- 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, J 

dering about many other things quite as Quixotic as they were agree- 
able. 

Miss Blount, who was watching his countenance with furtive anx- 
iety, guessed quite correctly all the ideas that were tormenting him, 
and was immensely amused accordingly. 

“It is of no use, Blackwood,” she said — “you cannot help me. 
Give it upt dear boy, and 1 dare say presently 1 shall be reconcile 1 
to my fate; but” — and here the softness vanished, the old har.l 
look taking its place — “I swear that, if I can avoid it, I will not end 
my days in this kind of poverty ; I shall marry 'riches, or not 
at all.” 

Me dropped her hand hurriedly, almost rudely, and turned away. 

“Money does not always mean happiness,” he said. 

“But poverty is always unhappiness,” she retorted, quickly. 

“Tita,” he reasoned, after a moment’s pause — she generally went 
by the name of “Tita” — short for Titania — with her two most inti- 
mate friends, on account of her fairy-like proportions — “Tita, do 
not place too much dependence upon riches; they will fail you in 
the end, my dearest — believe me, they will — whereas love that never 
dies, and a bare sufficiency, will carry you through all difficulties.” 

“As, for instance?” she asked, half mockingly. But whatever 
his sentiments on the subject of that much-discussed topic, “a suf- 
ficiency,” might be, she was never doomed to hear them, as at this 
juncture the door was once more opened slowly, to admit Archibald 
Blount. He adv^anced in his usual well-bred manner until he ha 1 
reached the table, whereon he deposited a piece of crumpled paper. 

“I have changed my mind. Katherine.” he said. “Here is a ten- 
pound note for you; so you can go to this much-coveted ball, if you 
wish.” 

“Oh, papa,” exclaimed Miss Blount, regretting bitterly now all 
the hasty words and thoughts she had been indulging in, “forgive 
me! T do not deserve your kindness, T know, after what T said to 
you a few moments ago: but. believe me. T am very grateful to you.” 
Yet still- she did not move forward to kiss him, as perhaps a more 
beloved daughter would have done. 

“Ho not distress yourself, my dear,” her father replied, with the 
faintest inflection of sarcasm in his voice. “T am sq well accustomed 
to your numerous little tender speeches, that they ceased to embar- 
rass me long ere this;” and so saying he went out, closing the door 
carefully behind him. 


6 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


“I have wronged him,” Miss Blount said, with extreme compunc- 
tion, when she was again alone with her cousin. ‘‘I have wronged 
him greatly both in word and thought; but that is just like me, 
is it not, — so ready to judge, so quick to condemn, and never hesita- 
ting a moment to think before I speak? Ah, if I could only change 
my nature in some things, I do believe in the end I might learn to 
be happy!” * 

“And are you not happy now, Tita?” Blackwood asked, gazing 
down with unspeakable tenderness upon the disconsolate little per- 
son beside him, who, with folded hands and moistened eyes, looked 
blankly out of the window; and as bespoke he took her chin between 
his hands, so turning her face towards him. 

“Not as happy as 1 might be,” she answered, glancing back into 
the face above her own, — as brave, kindly, and true a face as woman 
need care to see, — “not as happy as most of the girls I know. Do 
you know, at times I am even miserably discontented with my lot ? 
But there, — it is my portion in this life to have trouble, I suppose, 
so 1 dare say by and by I shall get used to it.” 

“Katherine,” said Blackwood, wistfully, “my darling, I cannot 
bear to hear you talk like this. I wish to heaven I had it in my pow- 
er now to shield you from every grief and p^in ; but at present 
what can I do? Perhaps afterwards, — in time, — if you will wait a 
little ” 

“Hush!” Miss Blount interrupted him quickly, eagerly, laying her 
hand with unconscious vehemence upon his arm, while a spasm of 
intense pain shot across her face. “Hush, Blackwood you must 
not speak to me like that! I will not have it. You are my cousin 
—my brother,— the dearest a girl could have, but nothing more,— 
never anything more.” 

The expression of Blackwood’s eyes changed. 

“Do not pretend to make any mistake,” he said, almost sternly, 
unloosing her fingers from his arm and holding them firmly between 
his own. “You know as well as I do that, for everything the woild 
contains, T would not be your brother. You know also that I will 
be to you all or nothing.” 

“Tt must be nothing, then,” the girl answered, very sadly, though 
firmly, blit not daring this time to raise her eyes to his; after which 
she walked away slowly to the door without another word. Arrived 
there, however, she lingered, — woman like, — with the handle in her 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 7 

hand, to see if he would not make some answer to her last cruel 
speech; but she waited in vain. 

Blackwood made no reply ; and, glancing involuntarily towards 
the window, where the autumn sun was gleaming brightly upon his 
upright figure, she could see that the dark, handsome, loyal face was 
white to the very lips. 

Blackwood Craven was Miss Blount’s first cousin, as far as relation- 
ship went, but in reality he had ever been far more to her than that 
term generally signifies; in her babyhood he had been her compan- 
ion, in her girlhood a brother, and ever since she had reached the 
age of seventeen— now three years since— her steady and constant 
lover. 

His father had died when the boy was still in his infancy, and the 
mother, dying some few years later, had confided the child on her 
death-bed to her only brother, Archibald Blount, together with a few 
hundred pounds, and an earnest prayer that he would do the best he 
could for her little one. This prayer Mr. Blount attended to as 
carefully as it was in his indolent, selfish nature to attend to any- 
thing unconnected with his own personal interests, sending his 
nephew to school, and from school to college, with the money in- 
trusted to his care, until the lad had finislied his education, and had 
come home at last, only to fall madly in love with his beautiful cou- 
sin. Jlien it is hard to say what would have become of the handsome, 
restless fellow had not a brother of his father’s come forward, 
and obtained for him a commission in a Line regiment, — a 
profession very much suited to the young man’s tastes and incli- 
nations. 

This same relative, dying soon after, left his nephew two hundred 
a year, -^whereas he might quite as easily have left liim two thousand, 
— upon which, and his pay as lieutenant, Blackwood Craven found 
it excessively difficult to get through his days and live respectable 
without incurring too numerous liabilities. 

Ilis attachment to Katherine Blount was the one ruling passion of 
his life. She was part of his existence. He worshipped the girl 
with blind idolatry, pouring out on her a generous wealth of love 
of which she was scarcely worthy. In his eyes, however, she was 
perfection, no flaw ever appearing to his stricken sight powerful 
enough to dim the faultlessness of his idol, while he ever dreamed 
fondly, unceasingly, of the time when this woman, who was to him 
a very goddess, should be his wife. 


SWEET IS TRUE LOFE, 


His poverty was an insurmountable barrier in the present, it was 
true; but in time, if she would only consent to wait a little, — and 
something whispered to him that he was surely more to her than all 
tlie other men who thronged around iier and basked in her sweet 
smiles, — he would conquer fortune bravely, and clifim her lionora- 
bly for his own. So he argued; and not all Katherine’s chilling 
speeclies or hasty frowns could entirely check the mad longing of his 
heart. 

At times indeed the utter hopelessness of Ids project would strike 
himself, crumbling to atoms all his pleasant castles in the air, when 
he would make up his mind to fly to the uttermost parts of the 
earth, and so escape the fascinations of her presence, — all which in- 
tentions were very wise and laudable so long as they lasted, which 
was precisely until Miss Blount’s^ irresistible, piquant, brilliant face 
smiled on him once more, when he would again fling to the winds 
all his settled dreams of flight, and hugging closely the bright de- 
ceptive present, refuse to look forward into the bitter future. 

Such scenes as that just described had become of late very fre- 
quent between them, — a warfare in which sometimes one, sometimes 
the other, came off victorious. To-day indeed the game was in Miss 
Blount’s small hands, however it might be to-morrow; and yetsome- 
liow, in spite of her triumph, the girl felt a certain heavy weight ly- 
ing coldly upon her heart, as she closed the library-door and vyalked 
forward into the hall. 

“What can be the matter with me?” she asked herself, imnatient- 
ly, pushing back her hair wearily from her forehead. “Blackwood’s 
face is haunting me, and I seem to have lost all longing for this ball 1 
was so ready to cry about not five minutes ago. I want air, T suppose, 
to dispel my fancies, so I shall just order my horse and go over to 
Harriet Charteris to see if she cannot rouse me from this strange de- 
pression,” — having come to which decision, she gave her orders to a 
passing servant, and went slowly and listlessly up the stairs to ex- 
change her morning-dress for her habit. 


CHAPTER II. 

Harriet Charteris was Miss Blount’s only woman friend and ad- 
viser; and naturally she was as unlike Miss Blount both in disposi- 
tion and appearance as it was possible for her to be. She was fair, 
of middle stature, lived about three miles from Blount Manor, 


/ 

SWEET IS 7 RUE LOVE. 9 

and was possessed of considerable attractions, a handsome house, a 
husband, two charming sons, and as many admirers as any woman 
need care to count; she was “fast,” she talked a little slang, she was 
adored by her husband and by at least half a dozen of his male ac- 
quaintances, and she flirted a good deal, besides all which, as might 
have been expected, she hunted. 

“Yes, she actually hunted, not like most girls, who go to the meet 
simply to see the hounds throw off, and then ride innocently home 
again, but straight over hedges and ditches, at the very heels of the 
men, in the most disgracefully masculine manner imaginable. Why, 
it Avas only the other day that she actually got a fall jumping over a 
high wall, tore her habit to pieces, and had every man in the fleld 
about her in less than two minutes, when, instead of being heartily 
ashamed of herself and going home directly to her poor little neglec- 
ted babes, she must needs mount her horse again and come in sec- 
ond at the ‘finish.’” 

Indeed, the feeling among her own sex had been strengthening 
day by day against pretty light-hearted Mrs. Charteris ever since her 
husband had first brought her home to his handsome residence; and 
matters might have come to a decisive climax had not the all-power- 
full Duchess of Alwyn been so struck by her prowess in the hunting- 
field as to demand an introduction immediately, taking particular 
care to be civil to her ever afterwards both at home and abroad. 

Lady Florence followed in her mother’s footsteps, and declared 
her to be “of all women the most charming, don’t you know; ” while 
the duke himself, who was rather a “rough customer,” and devoted 
to “pluck” of all kinds, gave it as his own strictly private opinion 
that the woman who could take “that last fence” so gallantly “must 
be a trump, sir. begad, and game to the end,” with various other 
recommendations to the same effect, more forcible perhaps than 
elegant. 

This aristocratic intervention slightly turned the tide in Mrs. 
Charteris’s favor, as far as knowing her went, though it only height- 
ened private hatred and resentment. Not that she ever did any- 
thing to cause this unrelenting animosity, beyond dressing better and 
looking lovelier and gaining more admiration in a day than her 
neighbors coiild ever hope to receiA^e in their lives; but then what 
woman can ever forgiAm any of these three things? Certainly Mrs. 
Charteris’s neighbors were unfriervlL' to ^ last degree, which was 


10 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 

perhaps the primary cause of the great friendship subsisting between 
her and Katherine Blount. 

Charlie Cbarteris, her husband, was a confirmed bookworm,— a 
naturalist,— and spent most of his time in a little “den” of his own, 
littered pretty nearly from floor to ceiling with dried ferns, wingless 
insects, obnoxious reptiles, and torn tattered parchments. Here he 
spent the greater part of his day, and here his wife, — w'hose favorite 
resort it was, and who had admission at all hours,— seated on the top 
of some of his choicest papers, seemed to shed beauty and warmth 
around the silent, preoccupied man, to whom she was as a bright 
sunbeam, and who possessed, whole and entire, the deep affection of 
her warm pure heart. 

Such was Katherine Blount’s chosen friend ; and to Castle Park it 
was that she wended her way, riding slowly and meditatively 
through the green lanes and under the branching trees, which shed 
soft showers of faded leaves upon her head, until she arrived at her 
destination, where she made the slightly disconcerting discovery that, 
in spite of her determination not to do so w^hen leaving, she had 
thought of nothing but Blackwood Craven’s dark dejected face the 
entire way. 

“Tita, my dearest, is it really you?” cried Mrs. Charteris, running 
merrily down the broad stone steps of the entrance to Miss Kather- 
ine, as the latter flung herself impatiently out of the saddle without 
a moment’s warning. “1 am so awfully glad to see you. Come in 
and spend the day with us, — do. Charlie has just got some new in- 
sect with forty legs, and wings to correspond, so he is lost for good- 
ness knows how long, and it will be quite charitable of you to take 
pity on me. But what is the matter with you, darling ? Are you 
vexed about anything?” 

“No. it is only the heat.” Miss Blount declared, “On the con- 
trary, I have good news. Papa — after I had abused him heartily in 
my inmost soul for about an hour — relented, and gave me money to 
buy a new dress for the Tauntons’ ball; so I am perhaps just a little 
bit put out, you see, at having wronged him in my thoughts so much.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Harriet, leading her visitor into an exquisitely- 
furnished little boudoir,— “you don’t say so! Well I am astonished 
at his amiability, and a wee bit disappointed perhaps, as I had 
ordered a dress for you myself. There! You need not get so in- 
dignantly crimson, — you are quite independent of my impertinent 


SU^EET IS TRUE LOVE. 


II 


interference now. But tell me when it was your father became con- 
scious of his iniquity.” 

“More than an hour ago,” Miss Blount answered,— “just after 
Captain Barrington arrived about some partridges for next month’s 
shooting. I saw him pass the garden on his way to the square field, 
where papa was. ” 

Mrs. Charteris laughed. 

“I don’t want to destroy the admiration you are cherishing for 
your father’s unprecedented conduct,” she said, “butl almost think I 
can guess what changed his mind. Did you not hear that Sir Mark 
Warrenne returned to the hall the evening before last? And cannot 
you fancy how eager the Tauntons will be to have him at their ball, 
and what a desirable match the wealthy baronet will be for Mr. 
Blount’s beautiful daughter? Now do not look so savage, Tita,— it 
is horribly unbecoming to your style; and do not make up your 
mind — as I see you are doing — to revenge all this on the poor young 
man himself. He is totally unconscious of the whole concern, you 
* know, and you owe him a debt of gratitude, as, but for his provi- 
dential arrival at this particular time, you would in all probability 
never have danced at the Tauntons’ ball.” 

“If I believed what you said to be really the case,” Miss Blount 
began, angrily, “I should ” 

“No; you would not, my dear, depend upon it,” interrupted Mrs. 
Charteris, provokingly, “as he is one of the nicest fellows 1 ever 
met. I know him extremely well, you know, having been intro- 
duced to liim last year in Switzerland, when he took the greatest 
fancy to me, and travelled about with us afterwards for at least 
two months. I liked him extremely, and have kept up a corres- 
pondence with him ever since; besides, he has fourteen thousand a 
year, and a delightful place — quite enough to make Pluto himself 
lovely in these degenerate days — and is just the very man for you.’' 

“And is old and ugly, I think you forgot to add,” Miss Blount 
put in, languidly, without the faintest suspicion of interest in her 
voice. 

“No, he isn’t,” Harriet answered, gayly; “he is everything your 
fancy could possibly paint him — ‘lovely’ as Apollo, but, thank 
Heaven, by no means ‘Divine.’ And, if you are a very good little 
girl, and play your cards properly, I will put in such a telling word 
for you that in the long run he will infallibly be ‘thine.’” 

‘T do think, Harriet, that at times you have not a particle of 


12 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


sense/’ Miss Blount exclaimed, amused at the other’s absurdity in 
spite of herself: whereupon the two friends broke into merry laugh- 
ter, and went up-stairs together to inspect Harriet’s dress for the 
ball, and decide on the color most becoming to Katherine Blount. 

Having at length, after a somewhat stormy debate, arrived at the 
satisfactory conclusion that Miss Blount would make a very present- 
able appearance in white and amber, the two began to meditate a 
descent on Charlie’s sanctum, for the express purpose of carrying 
olT its occupant forcibly to luncheon from among his beloved bee- 
tles, when a horse’s hoofs ringing on the hard gravel arrested their 
steps. Mrs. Charteris’s bed-room, being in the front of the house, 
i.>verlooked a great part of the avenue, so, running hastily to tlie 
window to ascertain who the new-comer might be, she was both 
startled and delighted* to perceive that it was no less a person than 
Sir Mark Warrenne himself. 

“Tita,” she cried, “who do you think it is? The veritable knight 
we have been discussing. How fortunate that he came just now — 
you always look so delicious in your riding costume! Come down, 
my dear, at once. I have set my heart upon this match. Tita” — 
with a sudden start — “what on earth is the matter with you, child ?” 
— gazing anxiously at Miss Blount, who was standing nervously, ir- 
resolutely, in the centre of the apartment, her cheeks flushed and 
her fine eyes full of tears. A new idea struck her friend. “Kathe- 
rine,” she whispered, “tell me— is there anything between you and 
your cousin?’ 

“Nonsense!” Katherine answered, almost angrily, “how can you 
talk such utter folly? Do you nbt know that Blackwood and I have 
been brother and sister ever since I can remember? Come” — 
changing her whole bearing with a visible effort — “we are only 
wasting valuable time here, when we might be — according to your 
showing — so much better employed; so take me down-stairs, Har- 
riet, and introduce me to your handsome hero.” And as she fin- 
ished speaking she held out her hand to Mrs. Oharteris with a pret- 
ty willful grace and a sudden assumption of good spirits that only 
partially imposed on her quick-witted, watchful friend. 

However, she made no further remark just then, but took the 
girl’s proffered hand fondly in her own, and led her down-stairs 
into the tasteful, sunny drawing-room, where Sir Mark Warrenne 
was introduced to Katherine Bjount, and whore Miss Blount made 


SWEET IS TkUE LOV£. ij 

herself as disagreeable as she very well could to that, exceedingly in- 
offensive young man. 

Mrs. Charteris was provoked beyond measure — how could Kathe- 
rine show herself in such an unfavorable light? — and set herself 
with laudable perseverance to turn the conversation into a more 
congenial channel, finally suggesting lunciieon as a last resource. 
This was always a pleasant meal at Castle Park, servants being 
strictly excluded, and a general air of unconventionality pervading 
the whole atmosphere; so Harriet fondly hoped that Katherine 
might thaw if exposed to its infiuence. 

•‘I hope you have come home for good this time, Sir Mark,’’ 
she began, presently, smiling in her pretty friendly manner at the 
baronet. 

“I cannot say whether it will be for good exactly,” he answered, 
pleasantly, “but I have at last made up my mind to give the old 
country a fair trial. You see, after you left, Mrs. Charteris, I found 
travelling about by myself just the slightest degree in the world slow, 
so I threw it up after a few months’ longer wandering. A fellow does 
feel the want of friends at some time or other during his life, I sup- 
pose, and my turn has come now. ” 

*‘l am afraid, for all that, you will miss the warm Italian skies and 
the beautiful Italian faces more than you fancy possible, after a 
while,” Mrs. Charteris went on, “and we shall be losing you again 
in a few months or so.” 

“I hardly think that,” he answered. “My tastes are not altogether 
so foreign as you seem to imagine; indeed, to please me, I have seen 
more real beauty since my return to the old place than I ever saw 
abroad.” And involuntarily as he spoke his eyes fell on the exquisite 
downcast face of Miss Blount, who was sturdily demolishing 
her cold fowl in the most provokingly practicable manner conceiv- 
able. 

“There! What a compliment to our dear old England!” Harriet 
exclaimed. “I feel quite proud when I recollect you are just fresh 
from the ‘Land of Beauty.’ Tita, will you not acknowledge that it 
was a pretty speech?” 

“Very,” Miss Blount replied, with abominable coolness, and with- 
out deigning to raise her eyes, — “quite the prettiest thing I ever 
heard, and so original. But, unfortunately, it has rather lost its 
charm for me, as I am quite tired of being told how extremely 
lovely 1 am.” 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


U 

Mrs. Charteris was aghast. She had never seen Katherine in such 
a wayward mood before, and could have shaken her heartily had they 
been alone. But Sir Mark was inexpressibly amused at the novelty 
of her impertinence, and laughed. 

“lam not surprised at your being bored on that subject,” he said; 
* ‘but I am rather sorry too, as I suppose my poor appreciation goes 
for little or nothing T 

“For nothing,” the girl answered, with sudden animation, raising 
her magnificent eyes for an instant, and fiashing a glance at him 
that puzzled him considerably at the moment and for a long time 
afterwards. 

“Well, I shan’t waste my sweetness,” he said, carelessly. “Mrs. 
Charteris, shall I give you a little more chicken?” 

“Ko, thank you,” Harriet answered cheerfully ; “but you may open 
the bottle of champagne behind you, if you will be so kind, as we all 
seem sinking into the gloomiest spirits.” 

“May I help you. Miss Blount,” Sir Mark asked presently, having 
done as he was desired, and gaziiig down inquiringly into Kather- 
ine’s beautiful but disdainful face, — “that is, without any danger of 
further offending you, I mean?” 

“Offending me ! ” Miss Blount echoed, with well-assumed innocence, 
a look of perfect astonishment overspreading her features. “I am 
not offended, — how could you think so? As you see me now, sol am 
always, — it is my natural manner.” 

“Oh, indeed! I was fancying otherwise,” Warrenne said, with a 
slight smile, accepting her statement in seemingly perfect good faith. 
“Then I may help you;” after which he sat down again, and ad- 
dressed himself exclusively to Mrs. Charteris. 

In two or three minutes Katherine rose. 

“I must be going,” she said. “Papa and Blackwood will be won- 
dering what has become of me. Good-by, Harry ; you will drive me 
into Belton to-morrow, will you not?” 

“Of course I will,” Mrs. Charteris answered, kissing her affection- 
ately. “Good-by until then, and take care of yourself; it is ratli- 
er wild of you, is it not, to ride over here all the way without a 
groom?” 

They had reached the hall-door by this time, where Miss Blount’s 
horse stood, held by one of the castle men. 

“Will you allow me to escort you home?” Sir Mark asked. “I 


SIVEET rs TRUE LOVE, 15 

can take care of you, I fancy, and so put Mrs. Charteris’s mind at 
rest about your safety.” 

“Thank you,” Katherine answered, placing the tiniest foot he kad 
ever yet seen in the palm of his hand, preparatory to mounting, 
“but I could not dream of giving you so much trouble. Besides,” 
ungraciously, — “I generally prefer riding by myself.” 

“Conclusive,” returned the young man, reddening a little, but 
gathering up the reins quietly and putting them into her hand, while 
Harriet felt almost ready to cry with vexation at the girl’s wilfulness. 
“But I am sorry for my own sake that solitary rides- are so much in 
favor with you, as it would have given me great pleasure to accom- 
pany you so far.” 

Miss Blount relented. After all, it was not his fault, and pro- 
bably he would never even want to marry her, — it was not wronging 
Blackwood in any way to be commonly civil to him. So she turned 
and made amends for her rudeness very prettily. 

“If it will really give you any pleasure,” she said, softly, bestow- 
ing a remarkably sweet repentant little smile on him the while, which 
was her method of being “commonly civil” to young men, “you can 
come ; but I warn you that I am not the most agreeable person 
in the world to ride with.” 

“Thank you,” Sir Mark found himself saying very gratefully. 
And so they rode down the long avenue of chestnuts together, little 
dreaming of the future that lay before them. 

Three miles is a short ride, taking small time to travel, so it was 
not very long before they arrived at the manor gate, where Warr- 
en ne drew rein and paused. 

“Will you not come in?” Miss Blount asked, her maimer more, 
friendly than it had been hitherto. “You knew papa long ago, I 
think, when I was away at school, and Blackwood, — did you know 
him?” 

“Y’our father and I were very good friends,” Sir Mark answered. 
“I will call to-morrow andrenew our acquaintance, as I cannot come 
in this evening, thank you ; but ‘Blackwood’ I have not the pleasure 
of knowing, — he is your brother?” 

“No, my cousin,” the girl answered, with a certain half-shy em- 
barrassment in her voice which she somehow found impossible to re- 
strain, and which caused the baronet to feel a most unreasonable 
pain somewhere about the region of the heart, — a pain he would have 


tS ^WRRT rs TRVR LOX^E, 

scorned to call jealousy, but which nevertheless was remarkably 
like it. 

‘‘Oh, . your cousin,” he said, simply. “Good-by, Miss Blount.” 
But he pressed her hand with unusual warmth, and went on his way 
musing vaguely about divers things that in some unaccountable 
manner always merged into a recollection of Kaherine Blount's mock- 
ing, irresistible face. 

Meanwhile, that young lady had cantered gayly enough up the gra- 
velled walk, all her old spirits quite restored now that the obnoxious 
baronet was out of her sight, and, having dismounted and run up 
stairs to change her dress for dinner, had come down again, radiant 
in beauty and white muslin, to encounter her cousin in the hall. 

“Where have you been all the day?” he inquired lovingly, taking 
both her hands in the old familiar fashion, and looking with true 
warm admiration into her eyes. “Riding?” 

“Yes, riding,” Katherine answered, feeling unusually glad to see 
him, and smiling brightly up into his face. “I went over to see 
ilarry and tell her all about this ball affair, you know.” 

“Yes, I know,” he said, still retaining her hands, as though loth 
to part with them, “and — did you hear that Sir Mark Warrennehas 
returned to the hall?” 

“Yes,” a vivid, unwished-for blush crimsoning her cheeks. “I 
met him to-day at Harriet’s.” 

“Did you?” Blackwood said, with sudden bitterness, as he marked 
the conscious flushing of her face; and he dropped the little clinging 
fingers hurriedly, as though their kindly touch had burned him. 


CHAPTER HI. 

The Tauntons’ ball was as great a success as anybody could poss- 
ibly have wished; as indeed most balls in the country are, so little 
formality is mixed up with the amusement, so much real enjoyment 
mingled with theoutward fun. Miss Blount, in her gleaming white 
and amber, looked “every inch” a fairy queen, or anything else un- 
usually lovely, all the night, — at least so thought Sir Mark Warr- 
enne, to whom she appeared on that particular evening and ever after- 
wards the “darlingest” girl in all the world. He fell in love with her 
hopelessly, irretrievably, as entirely as even Harriet Charteris could 
have wished, and was perpetually bringing over flowers, and 
sending up to London for books, and music, all to make excuses for 
his incessant visits to the old manor. After a few ineffectual strug- 


^ H£E T IS TRUE LO VE. 


ipfles to maintnin her former stiff demeanor, Miss Blount succumbed 
and treated him with that strange insidious mixture of womanly 
gentleness and childish petulance so dangerously sweet to all 
those who were unlucky enough to enrol themselves under her 
banner. 

Archibald Blount was more than satisfied with the state of 
things; affairs seemed improving, and brighter days loomed in the 
misty future. Already he saw visions and dreamed dreams of the 
time to come when his pockets should be once more amply filled, 
and the old place renovated from garret to basement. He thought 
with exultant glee of the brilliant prospect in store for him, when, 
thanks to his daughter’s wealth, he wopld be for the remainder of 
his days far beyond the reach of that dread nightmare, Debt, and 
enabled to compass many things necessary to his own individual com- 
fort, now utterly unattainable. So he calculated; and meantime 
Sir Mark, with the nervous timidity of a blushing school-boy — de- 
spite his twenty-seven years — was wondering when he should dare to 
lay his fourteen thousand a year at Miss Blount’s diminutive feet, 
while Blackwood Craven, in the background of the picture, was 
quietly eating his heart away in silent bitter hopelessness. 

One morning early, about eleven o’clock. Sir Mark Warrenne called 
at the manor and found Miss Blount in the smaller flower-garden 
overlooked by the drawing-room windows. Crossing the lawn and 
vaulting the wire partition that separated the parterre where she was 
standing from the outer grass, he came up to her, and held out his 
hand. “Good-morning,” he said. 

“Good-morning,” returned Katherine, politely, returning his 
smile sweetly, and giving him her hand with much friendliness. 
“You are determined we shall not call you lazy. Have you had your 
breakfast?” 

“Hours ago. I have forgotten all about it. What! Would you 
have me lie in bed with the merry sun so high in the heavens? I 
am not such a sluggard as that.” 

“I apologize,” said Katherine, with mock humility: “yet still I 
plead guilty to a feeling of intense curiosity. You must not think 
me rude or imagine yourself unwelcome, — but what has brought you 
here at this hour?” 

“An overpowering desire to see you again,” — with a laugh that 
completely banished all suspicion of love-making, — “and— the fact 
is, I am going fishing: my rod is at the house. Will you come?” 


i8 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


*‘You take ray breath away. Let me consider.” 

“You said a few days since you rather liked the sport, because - it 
was an idle one and entailed little exertion. You see I do not forget 
your smallest remarks. Pray do not look so superciliously at my 
clothes, — you make me feel uncomfortable. I suppose I ought to 
make excuses for my toilet ; but, if my costume is aged, my heart at 
least is young, as they say at the Adelphi.” 

“I assure you,” returned Katherine, laughing and blushing 
prettily, “I was not thinking about your clothes at all, — I ” 

“1 am certain you were,” he said; “your face betrays you. Town 
myself I don’t exactly admire fishing boots. About six years ago 
I used to affect the most ravishing attire when going on these ex- 
cursions — used to get myself up ‘regardless of expense,’ and looked 
upon ray tailor as the most talented man of my acquaintance. But 
time cures all things, and you see me now a sadder but a wiser man. 
Besides, I have captured so many unwary fish in this coat that I 
have quite a superstition about it. But you do not answer. Will 
you come? Do come. Miss Blount, and I will let you have all the 
fish — there! You cannot refuse so noble an offer.” 

“I could,” declared Katherine, “if I tried.” 

“Then don’t try.” 

“By the by,” — laughing, — “if you had said nothing about your 
shabbiness, I should never have found it out, and might have im- 
agined your coat fresh from Poole.” 

“Your imagination must be your strong point. Never mind, — I 
made] you blush in the first instance, and that compensates me. 

W hen you blush you look very . Come, I am eager to be at the 

‘silvery trout.’ ” 

“One word before I decide. Are you going to use fiies or — worms?” 

“If I say the latter?” 

“Then I shall say ‘No.’” 

“And if I say the former?” 

“Then I shall say ‘Yes.’ ” 

“The ‘Ayes’ have it,” Sir Mark cried, triumphantly. “I am using 
fiies, and nothing else. Now you have no excuse but to qpme.” 

“The only drawback,” said Katherine, still hesitating, “is my 
gown,” — casting a glance at her white dress. “Can I go like this?” 

“Oh, no, not like that, — you would utterly ruin your finery for- 
ever! Put on something dark, and you will be all right,” 

“And supposing I haven’t it?’* 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


10 


thought so horrible would never suggest itself. Now hurry, 
— the morning is taking to itself wings and flying away.’^ 

Katherine ran into the house, threw aside the dress she wore, 
equipped herself in one more suitable, all in a wonderfully short 
space of time, and ran down the stairs again to find him waiting for 
her in the hall. 

“Am I arrayed to your satisfaction?” she asked, gayly, placing 
her hands behind her back and trying to look like a naughty child 
going through its morning task. 

“N'o, — more to my discomfiture,” replied he, with rather more 
fondness in his tone than he had hitherto allowed himself. 

Katherine made no reply, but, coloring faintly, followed him out 
into the warm, sweet-scented autumn air. 

Through the grass they went, at first ^lently, then with small at- 
attempts at conversation which increased and strengthened after a 
while. 

“You and your cousin are very intimate, — quite like brother and 
sister,” said Sir Mark presently, of nothing had gone before.^ 

“Quite,” assented Katherine, concisely, who hardly cared to carry 
on the conversation. 

“It must be very pleasant for you to have him with you, — this 
place is so dull.” 

“I do not find it so.” 

“No? But what is there to do?” 

“Trout-fishing, for instance,” suggested Katherine, archly. • 

“So there is. Do you — ever go fishing with your cousin?” 

“I haven’t been lately. Long ago, when we were children, I used 
to go with him.” 

“He is very handsome.” 

“Is he?” 

“Yes; don’t you think so?” — glancing at her searchingly. 

“I am so accustomed to his face, you see, ” replied Katherine, with 
assumed indifference, though she knew her face had crimsomed 
vividly, to her great disgust. “But where are we going? Have you 
decided on any particular spot?” 

“The mill-stream is a capital plfice for trout. There is a little 
pool there that swarms with fish — do you know it ? — high up, rather 
near the mill itself.” 

“Just below the sluice?” asked Katherine. 

“Exactly, I believe you are a cleverer hand at fishing than I am 


20 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


tuyself. See, there is the old mill; how pretty it looks with its ivy- 
eovered walls! When I was a boy this was my favorite haunt.” 

“Flow romantic! To make the story complete there should be a 
miller’s daughter for you to fall in love with and sacrifice your all to 
marry.” 

“1 do not think I should fancy a miller’s daughter, — a 7;;'ea^^-and- 
butter miss’ in dreadful earnest. She would be so overgrown and so 
unmistakably healthy in appearance. Besides, I have my ideal 
formed,— it is too late for me to think of changing.” 

“You are sincere?” 

“Fatally so for my own happiness.” 

“And your ideal? Describe her to me.” 

“V'our looking-glass would give you a very fair description,” re- 
plied he, without looking at her. 

She frowned slightly, and then dismissed her anger as unfounded. 
After all, many a man had paid her compliments; why should she 
resent this one in particular? 

“Here is the spot you mean,” she said, pointing to a broad dark 
pool, which seemed almost a resting-place in the centre of the stream. 
There had been a good deal of rain for the past few days, and the 
river was much swollen. Here and there it rose above its banks. 

About a yard distant from the edge of the meadow on which they , 
stood, where Warrenne sat vigorously to work to prepare his rod and 
choose his choicest fly, a large stone rose high in the stream, and, 
being flat, formed a secure standing-place. 

“I think,” said Katherine, pointing to it, “if I stood there I could 
sec you better, and be nearer to you. ” 

“That would be an advantage to me,” he remarked calmly, with- 
out removing his eyes from his fly-book; “in a minute or two I will 
put you there.” 

“If you jump on to it, and give me your hand, I can spring there 
easily,” said she. 

“I doubt it; it is farther than you think. Better let me carry you 
across; my boots — that you so admired awhile ago — will prevent my 
getting the least wet.” 

“Mo, I need not give you all that trouble. lean manage so much, 

I fancy; you forget 1 am not a town-bred young lady, ungual to any 
exertion.” 

“It would not give me any trouble.” he said; “on the contrary, it 
would be a pleasure. And, if you were to jump short and get wet, 


5 IFEJ^ T IS TRUE LO VE, 


IX 

I should never forgive myself. Besides, think of tlie dreadful scold- 
ing 1 sliould receive from Mr. Blount.” 

“1 don’t think you would,” remarked Katherine, dryly. “Come, 
how long you are arranging your flies! i shall think you a mere tyro 
in the art if you do not hurry.” 

“When you speak to me in that tone you make me tremble, 
and all my skillful knots come undone. Now 1 believe I am ready 
at last.” 

“Then help me over,” she exclaimed. 

“You won’t let me carry you, then?” persuasively. 

“No, thank you. I would not let you imagine me so helpless,” 

“The risk be on your own head!” cried he; and, springing to the 
rocky stone in question, he stretched out his hand to her. 

It was a considerable distance, but Miss Blount cleared it success- 
fully, and landed high and dry beside him. 

“Now go back to the bank, and try your luck,” she said. 

“Is one ever lucky when overlooked by a woman?” asked War- 
renne, ruefully. “I feel as if the eyes of Europe were upon me, and 
know I shall sink forever in your estimation as a distinguished pupil 
of Isaak Walton.” 

“Don’t be shy,” said Katherine, “or frightened. I promise I won’t 
upbraid, even though we return home empty-handed. Indeed, 
I think I would rather the poor pretty little things should escape.” 

“I knew a man who went out nine times with two girls of his ac- 
quaintance, fishing, — very pretty girls they were too, — and not one 
fish did he catch during the entire time. On the tenth day he went 
alone, and caught three dozen; and of course they didn’t believe it, 
and said he bought them. They used to chaff him awfully about it. 
and tell every one in an innocent way that they adored going fishing 
with Captain Brown, because he never hurt their feelings by killing 
anything. If I am Equally unfortunate to-day, you must promise 
not to laugh at me. If you do, T will never forgive you.” 

“T will make no rash promises. When the ninth day comes, I shall 
decide on my conduct.” 

“Do you mean that you will come fishing with me for nine days? 
If I thought that, I fancy I should order a new suit. I am not sure, 
but I think I should.” 

“I would not encourage extravagance for the world. But I don’t 
mind going fishing with you now and then.” She had to call out to 
him pretty loudly now, as he had deserted his first position, and had 


22 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, 


gone farther down the stream to try his luck elsewhere. 

The sluice of the mill-stream had grown old and rotten. It had 
been trembling to its fall for some time past. The heavy rains of 
the previous day had given the finishing touch, and with a sudden 
crash, a dull rattling, it gave way, and down came the water with a 
rush. Onward it came to where Katherine stood, half-frightened, 
yet hardly understanding — not the danger, certainly, because there 
was little, but — the discomfort of her position, until the water, cov- 
ering the stone and rising to her feet, showed it to her. 

“Sir Mark!” she cried, eagerly. 

He had followed his line down the stream, and was unconscious of 
her situation. 

“Sir Mark!” she cried again, this time more loudly; and, looking 
up, he saw what had happened, and ran to her assistance. The water 
had overflowed the banks on either side, and the jump that had 
been so happily performed a few minutes since was now totally im^ 
practicable. 

“After all, I shall have to carry you over this time,” he coula 
not resist saying, though troubled that the mishap should have be- 
fallen her. 

“But you cannot come in,” cried Katherine, in dismay; “y*ou will 
be wet up to your waist, and ” 

“What matter?” said he, valiantly, taking off his coat. 

“But, indeed. Sir Mark, I cannot allow it. If you go to the mill, 
the old man will send some one to my relief.” 

“And in the meantime you will stay there catching your death of 
cold? You must think me either very delicate or very chicken- 
hearted to allow that,” said Sir Mark, who had already entered the 
water, and was wading towards her. 

The water near the stone rose high — quite as high as she had pre- 
dicted. As he reached her, he took her in his arms. 

“Tuck your dress well round you,” he said, “or it will get into the 
water, and don’t stir, and I will take you safely. Now, supposing 
you were the miller’s daughter, what an infinitely more difficult task 
this would be than it is at present. How light you are!” 

“Do you say that with a view to self-support?” asked Katherine, 
unable to resist laughing at the absurdity of the whole afifair. 

“No, indeed. I should not mind carrying you so — forever.” 

“I should mind it very mucli,” retorted Katherine. And then the 
dry ground was reached, and she was gently placed upon it. 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


21 


“Your poor little feet,” said Sir Mark, regarding the wet boots 
that covered her tiny feet with much compassion, “what can I do for 
them?” 

“Oh, look at yourself ! ” cried Katherine. “You are dripping! 
You will certainly catch your death of cold. Do not think of me 
— I am comparatively comfortable compared with you. Think only 
of yoursielf.” 

“I could not do that, Katherine, ’’asserted the young man, feeling 
he would gladly go in again, even up to his chig, if by so doing ■ he 
could earn permission to kiss the exquisite pitying face raised so ten- 
derly to his. ‘ ‘No ; the question is — shall we make for the mill, or 
run home?” 

‘•Run home,” said Katherine; “it is not so very far, and I do not 
think the miller’s Sunday clothes would be. becoming to you or me.” 

Whereupon they started, and ran for a considerable way through 
the meadows, scarcely heeding their wet garments, so blithely danced 
the blood in their young veins. 

“1 don’t think you will come fishing with me again,” said Sir 
Mark, when they stopped to recover breath. “When we started this 
morning, you little thought there was such a treat in store for you.” 

“And where are my trout?” asked Katherine, with a comical smile. 

“Did I not say T should catch none?” retorted he, with a shrug. 
“But you must admit it was accident, not want of skill, that came 
between me and fortune to-day.” 

‘•There is always something. If that sluice had never given way, 
I believe you would have the same story to tell.” 

“1 scorn your insinuations,” said he; ‘‘but here we are at the 
house. Now run up-stairs directly and change your things, while I 
beg pardon and the use of his wardrobe from Mr. Blount.” 

At the manor they always dined early — that is, about five o’clock; 
after which, between eight and nine, there was regularly laid out a 
certain meal called “tea”— the most delightfully unceremonious, 
agreeable meal any one could possibly conceive. All formality was 
expressly forbidden, everybody took care of himself, and tea and 
coffee, fruit, cold meat, and steaming tea-cakes were blended to- 
gether in the happiest confusion. ^ During the summer months it 
was well known throughout the neighborhood that at this particular 
hour the Blounts were more pleased than at any other time to see 
their visitors, and many were, the merry meetings that took place at. 
the old manor while the warm weather lasted. 


24 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


~1 


Sir Mark, being only too glad of an opport\inity that brought 
him to Miss Blount’s side, was in the habit of coming over at least 
four nights in every week from Warrenne Hall to receive a cup of 
coffee, and watch Katherine’s delicate hands as they moved merrily 
here and there among the gilded china. The summer had been re- 
markably wet and cold — so much so that the following season, as 
though ashamed of its comrade’s churlishness, had shone out with 
unusual splendor; and, though it was now the middle of September, 
the weather was so warm and bright and sunny that one could eas- 
ily imagine J uly to have gone astray from its natural place, and 
turned up again in the heart of brown-tinged autumn. 

Warrenne — who had arrived at that unsatisfactory stage of his 
love-affair when a man feels restless and generally uneasy if debar- 
red from a sight of his divinity for a whole day — had strolled over 
this evening from his own place, a walk of about two miles and a 
half through the surrounding woods and intermediate fields, to see 
Miss Blount. At her garden-gate he met her just setting out for a 
distant paddock to criticize a certain colt, which she fondly hoped 
might prove “after her own heart.’’ 

Now Katherine was at all times slightly peculiar in the point of 
dress, — a peculiarity that at intervals might almost be called odd, 
not to say fantastical ; and to-night, about an hour before Sir Mark’s 
arrival, feeling tired and listless with nothing to do, — Blackwood hav- 
ing gone out after dinner to a neighboring farm upon some business 
of his uncle’s, — she had gone up-stairs to an old lumber-room, when, 
poking here and there in a vague, unthinking manner, she had come 
suddenly upon a rich black satin dress of her mother’s, — fresh and 
good certainly, but extremely oid-fashioned, — which had at once ta- 
ken her girlish fancy. 

She tried it on ; it fitted to perfection, almost as though it had been 
made expressly for her, and, iiavingbeen originally intended for full 
dress, leaving the arms and neck quite bare, seemed the very thing 
for such a warm, enervating evening as the present. 

She would go down-stairs and see what Blackwood would say to 
her when he returned, and, ‘passing through the garden, she stopped 
to decorate her hair and neck and belt with some pieces of brilliant 
scarlet geranium, coming direclly, almost immediately afterwards, 
upon Sir Mark Warrenne in all her new found bravery. 

For a moment the young man was silent, aiid could do nothing 
but stare at her, so beautiful a vision did she appear to him jusJL then, 


S U'E/i r JS ‘ 7 E VE L 0 VE. 


with her gleaming white neck and arms, and delicate laughing face. 
No matter how old the dress might be, no matter how ancient and 
out of date, it suited her; its very antiquity only serving to show her 
off more clearly in the mellow, softening twilight, as one of the very 
daintiest, sweetest, fairest creatures that ever adorned this earth. His 
fixed gaze brought a faint blush to her soft cheeks; she came hurried- 
ly forward and held out her hand. 

“It is you,’* she said simply, but in a tone of unmistakable wel- 
come. He took her hand and held it fast, but still made no answer, 
being fully occupied in trying to account for the alteration in her 
appearance. Presently, having submitted to his scrutiny very quiet- 
ly for a few moments, she spoke again, half coquettish ly, half con- 
fusedly this time. 

“Have you notliing to say to me?” 

“Yes, I have plenty,” Warenne answered, still puzzled, but draw- 
ing himself up as though to shake off, or at least loosen, the spell 
that was closing round him, “but sojiiehow to-night you are a little 
different, I fancy — you are changed. Oh,” — with a relieved look 
and a feeling of inspiration, — “you liave a new dress on, have you 
not ?” 

“No, I haven't,” Katlierine exclaimed, with a merry, ringing laugh ; 
“it is as old as the hills, and has, 1 am afraid frightened you. Am 
1 looking very hideous, then, or why is it that you stare at me so 
strangely? Why, I thought” — moving a few yards away from him, 
and glancing back over her shoulder with indescribable grace at the 
long trailing skirt behind her — “I fancied that, in spite of my small- 
ness, I was looking the very personification of dignity.” 

“You are looking only too lovely,” Warrenne told her, coming 
over to her side, and speaking in a tone of such warm, undeniable 
admiration that the girl could hardly fail to feel pleased; while at 
the same moment an intense mad longing arose in his heart to catcli 
her in his arms, — an extremely foolish, not to say reprehensible pro- 
ceeding, which he refrained from putting into execution. “You were 
going for a walk, Miss Blount,” he said, presently. “May I come 
with you?” 

“I am going down to the off-paddock to see the new colt,” she an- 
swered, “and you may come with me if you like.” After which gra- 
cious permission on the part of the majestic little lady, they saunter- 
ed along together through the soft velvety grass. 

On one side of them rose a tall quick-set hedge, which effectually 


7 ^ 


StVP.Ef Is TRUE LOVP. 


shielded from their view a narrow gravelled path that wound its se- 
cluded way directly to the house, and from which, about a hundred 
yards farther on, one had access by a rustic stile in a breach in the 
hedge into the field where they now were. When they had come to 
within about fifty paces of this stile. Miss Blount stopped suddenly, 
and glanced up at her companion with a half-amused smile. 

“What is it?’' he asked. 

“My shoe,” she answered; “it has come undone: the string is loose ; 
and if I go anotlier step it will certainly come off altogether.” 

•‘Let me fasten it for you,” Sir Mark proposed, gravely; and Miss 
Blount having murmured that he was “very good,” he forthwith 
went down on his knees and took her beautiful little foot almost re- 
verently in his hand. 

It so happened tliat just at this moment, as ill luck would have it. 
Blackwood Craven was returning by the small gravelled walk from 
seeing after his uncle’s business, and as he stepped on the stile, pre- 
paratory to entering the field, with the fond hope in his heart, poor 
fellow ! that he should somewhere hear the garden meet his cousin 
Katherine, the following tableau met his eyes. 

Sir Mark Warrenne was kneeling on the grass, his fair handsome 
head bent over Miss Blount’s foot as it rested on his knee, while she 
was steadying herself comfortably by leaning her hand on the stoop- 
ing baronet’s sliou filer. The shoe took a very long — in fact, a re- 
markably long — time to fasten; either Sir Mark was unused to such 
tasks, — as most probably he was, — and therefore was awkward in 
accomplishing it, or else he found his occupation the most agreeable 
he had ever undertaken, and wished to linger over it. Who shall .de- 
cide? 

Certain it is, however, that two whole minutes elapsed before it was 
considered safe for Miss Blount to place her foot upon the ground 
once more; and, when at length it was pronounced ready. Sir Mark, 
as though unwilling to part with it without rendering it homage, 
bent down and pressed his lips most fervently to the dainty stocking 
that covered the high-arched instep. 

Miss Blount first frowned at this little act on the young man’s 
part, after which she smiled and murmured a demure little “Thank 
you!” and then Blackwood Craven, with a groan that was half a 
curse, dropped down from the stile — whereon he had been sitting 
quite unobserved by the other two— and advanced rapidly to meet 
them. The passionate pride of his nature stood him in good stead 


T IS TkVE L6 VE. ±>f 

here, blanching his whole face certainly, but leaving his smile as 
uiiembarassed and pleasant as usual. 

“Good*evening, Warrenne,” he said, carelessly, holding out his 
hand. “I fancied somehow all day that you would be down this 
evening. I want to speak to you by and by about that pointer of 
yours. Going to see ‘the Duke,’ Katherine? I hurried back as 
quickly as I could to accompany you, but now you have Sir Mark it 
doesn’t matter; and it happens very well, as I have some letters to 
write. “But” — with a smile — “do not be longer than you can help, 
dear, as I want my coffee badly, and, besides, the dew is beginning 
to fall heavily.” With which little brotherly speech, and a parting 
kindly touch upon her shoulder, he went on his way, to all outward 
seeming perfectly composed. 

Perhaps he imposed upon Sir Mark, — future events proved that 
he did, more or less, — but on his cousin he certainly did not. She 
had known him too long not to understand by this time what alone 
could whiten his brave, handsome face, or cause the hand that rested 
on her arm when passing to burn with such a dry, throbbing heat. 

In a moment her whole mood changed ; she could no longer chat- 
ter and laugh with the man beside her; Blackwood’s face interposed, 
and seemed to forbid it; she felt cold and chilled, and wickedly in- 
clined towards the world in general. She hated Sir Mark, simply 
because he had offered most kindly to tie her shoe, and she could 
find nothing else against him just then; she hated the innocent colt 
that had been the primary cause of all this mischief; she hated her- 
self, in that she had allowed Warrenne to hold her'foot for even one 
moment in his hand, and to kiss it, pah! how hateful seemed now 
the thing that had appeared so harmless a few minutes before ! — and 
she hated Blackwood, because — ah, no! not Blackwood, above all 
people. Heaven alone knew how little hatred she cherished in her 
heart for him. 

“What are you thinking of?” her companion asked, presently, be- 
ginning to wonder at the protracted silence. 

“Of many things,” she answered, vaguely, not to say unpleasantly. 
But Sir Mark, being perfectly unsuspicious of having offended her 
in any way, detected no warning in her voice, and went on unwit- 
tingly to his undoing. 

“Tell me one of them, Tita,” he said, tenderly, so compromising 
himself as absolutely as mortal man could do so. 

“Tita” was her pet name, given to her by Blackwood, and one of 


SlWKET rs TRUE LOVE, 


her own choosing; it was used by him always, no “outsiders” being 
ever permitted to address her by this sobriquet; Harriet Charteris 
alone excepted, she indeed being deemed worthy to share with him 
the right of using this title. To hear Sir Mark, therefore who was 
a comparative stranger, and who besides had been the cause of all 
that heart-burning a moment ago, using it now, stung her to the 
quick. She turned upon him instantly, imperiously. 

“Do not address me in that manner,'’ she said. “Who gave you 
permission to call me ‘Tita’? Not i, certainly! Never dare to do it 
again?” 

•T beg your pardon,” Warrenne replied just a little haughtily, feel- 
ing and looking considerably astonished at this outbreak, as well he 
might. “I had no idea you would have any objection. Will you tell 
me what I may call you, then, — •Katherine? ” 

“1 think perhaps ‘Miss Blount’ will be best,” slie answered, with 
extreme hauteur, born either of her ruffled temper or the new-found 
satin train that rustled majestically behind her. 

After this agreeable finish to their conversation, the remainder of the 
walk was decidedly the reverse of pleasant, being passed in utter si- 
lence; and it was not until they were safely seated at the tea-table 
that Katherine once more recovered her usual spirits. Having suc- 
ceeded in making Sir Mark quite as miserable as a man could well 
be, she changed her tactics most unexpectedly, and raised him in a 
short time to afar higher realm of bliss than he had ever yet dreamt 
of; so that when tea was finished, and th^.y all broke up to go their 
different ways, Warrenne followed Miss Blount through the pretty 
comfortable drawing-room into an adjoining old-world apartment — 
empty, waxed, and wainscoted — until they found themselves alone 
in the embrasure of a large oak-panelled window, that opened case- 
ment fashion, and through which the white glimmering moon shone 
down upon their faces. 

The hour and situation were “sentimental,” to say the least of it, 
and Katherine, leaning back in her favorite attitude against the shut- 
ter, with soft silver moonbeams lighting up her black dress and fair 
warm loveliness, looked almost unearthly in her extreme beauty. 

“Katherine,” said Sir Mark, in alow impassioned tone, and with- 
out a word of preface, “I love you. Will you marry me?” 

Miss Blount, not dreaming that for the next few months at least he 
would come to the last scene in his drama, was astonished; she raised 


SJVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 29 

her eyes, and gazed with mute bewilderment upon her latest lover, 
but answer she found none. 

“Darling,” Warrenne went on, possessing himself of both her 
hands, and speaking quickly, vehemently, “it is soon, I know, to tell 
you this; but I love you, and waiting years could not increase my 
love. 1 hold you in my heart as I never yet held any woman, — for 
1 place my whole future happiness humbly at your feet. Will you 
not speak tome, Katherine, and hold out to me some hope?” 

Miss Blount withdrew her hands, and sat down on the deep old- 
fashioned window-seat; it seemed very hard to her just then to tell 
this man who looked so terribly in earnest that he could never be any- 
thing more to her than a mere friend. 

‘*1 am sorry,” she began, faintly, but he interrupted her hurriedly. 

“Do not begin like that!” he implored. “Do not answer me now 
at all, Katherine, but take a little time to think before you decide 
on telling me what must render my entire life either intensely hap- 
py or unspeakably bitter. Take until to-morrow, and promise me 
that you will not condemn me hastily, but will for one night at least 
reflect on what I have said.” 

Archibald Blount was coming slowly towards them through the 
long room, on which the darkness seemed to Mark Warrenne to have 
fallen heavily, and the girl had only just time to whisper, “I promise 
you,” when he came up to them. ' 

‘‘What! Going so soon. Sir Mark?” he exclaimed, with his pleas- 
ant, well-bred smile. “Have I frightened you away ? Well, good- 
night; you have a charming evening for your walk;” and he shook 
the young man heartily by the hand, wliile he formed in the same 
moment, at a glance, a pretty accurate estimate of how matters stood. 

“Katherine,” he said, when Sir ]\Iark was fairly gone, “will you 
come into my study before you go to bed, and copy out a business let- 
ter for me? I am so sick of writing myself.” 

“I will be with you in one instant,” Miss Blount answered, as he 
turned to seek his private apartment again, whither she followed him 
shortly afterwards, only pausing to say a passing word to Blackwood 
as she encountered him in the hall. 

“Where are you off to, Tita?” he asked, kindly, stopping the lit- 
tle black-robed figure as it was flitting past him. 

“To copy a letter for papa. And you are going, I suppose, to 
smoke a last cigar? W ell, in that case, 1 will bid you good-night nuw, 
Blackwood, as 1 dare say 1 shall not see you again,” 


30 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 

“Good-night, my love,” he answered, very sadly, holding her 
hands fast for a moment, as though undecided as to whether or not 
he would ask her a question that lay very close to his heart to-night ; 
but after an instant’s reflection he resolved to be silent, and, drop- 
ping her hands suddenly, went on his way with a quick, impatient 
sigh. 

“I will be true to him,” the girl murmured with loving earnest- 
ness to herself, as she went into the study and sat down to write out 
the letter Archibald Blount laid before her. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It certainly did strike Katherine, while occupied upon it, that the 
business matter contained in the sheet before her was by no means 
worth the trouble of copying; but she went on steadily with her task 
nevertheless, until she had reached the end and signed the name, 
when her father suddenly broke in upon the silence by saying, — 

“Did Sir Mark Warrenne propose for you this evening, Kath- 
erine?” 

“Yes,” she answered, raising her eyes and wondering what was 
coining next, 

“And you, — what did you say?” Archibald asked, gently as ever, 
although it was with difficulty he restrained the nervous trembling of 
hisVoice. as he remembered the young man’s hasty departure and 
his daughter’s well-known impulsiveness. Good heavens! Could it 
be possible that she had been mad enough to refuse him? 

‘Tie asked me to wait until to-morrow before I gave him a decided 
answer,” the girl replied, in a low, clear tone; “so of course I said I 
would; but when to-morrow does cornel shall certainly ref use him.” 

“Just so,” Mr. Blount said, quietly, .almost dreamily. Yet a 
heavy load seemed lifted from his heart, and he roused himself to 
breathe more freely, and to put into execution a little plot he had 
been cherishing whereby to change the current of his daughter's in" 
tentions; butfirst he would try what argumentcould do. “Of course? 
that is quite your own affair, and I dare say you have your reasons,’ 
he went on, in the careless, uninterested tones in which one might 
address an utter stranger when seeing him going wilfully and blind- 
ly on the road to destruction, — “quite your own look-out from begin- 
ing to end ; but why you have taken it into your usually clear head 
to refuse Sir Mark Warrenne, I cannot conceive. He is well-bred, 
handsome, and as honorable a young fellow as one could meet with, 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 31 

besides being extremely well off, and indeed in every respect a most 
suitable match for your beauty. What is your reason?” 

“I do not love him,” Katherine declared, decisively, knitting her 
brows and looking straight before her. 

“You do not — what?” Archibald asked in a tone of mingled in- 
credulity and wonder, almost comical in its perfect astonishment, 
tluit to a mere looker-on must have appeared infinitely amusing. 
In truth, he was as intensely amused himself as it was in his nature 
to be. That anybody should allow such a secondary consideration 
as love to interfere with the posseesion of fourteen thousand a year 
seemed to Archibald Blount about as comical an idea as he had ever 
heard. 

“I do not love him,” his daughter repeated, if possible more firm- 
ly this time, still with a frown on her fair forehead. and the same 
steady look into space. 

“Now is my time,” thought her companion, changing his .position 
as well as his tactics, and facing her with a look upon his face she 
had never before beheld there. 

“Jvafcherine,” he began, very earnestly, “I had hoped there would 
never have been any necessity for my telling you what 1 am now 
about to disclose ; but, seeing that you are wilfully, and for no 
eartldy reason, about to throw away a chance that Providence alone 
could have sent you just now, I think it only my duty to tell you the 
fact that, unless within three months I get some help, this house 
wdth all it contains will be sold above my head, leaving you and me 
beggjiirs upon the face of the earth.” 

“Papa?” Miss Blount ejaculated, faintly, every particle of blood 
I’eceding from herface. 

Her father had risen from his seat at the conclusion of his speech’ 
ajui was now pacing rapidly up and down the polished boards of the 
library, seemingly in deep agitation. And without doubt he wa.s 
agitated, — more so than even he himself could have conceived possi- 
ide at the beginning of the conversation, — though from a very diff- 
erent cause from that which he had described to Miss Blount. 

The old m-inor was as secure over his head now as it had been at 
any time for the last ten years, which certainly v^as not saying much 
for it, Archibald being quite unable to remember the time when he 
had i)e(>n free from debt; but the idea of this girl, for the sake of a 
mere whim, allowing fourteen thousand a year to slip through her 
fingers, m ade his very blood run cold. 


32 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


‘*You alone could have saved me,” he went on, heedless of her 
faint interruption; “with the knowledge of your husband’s wealth, 
iny creditors would have become less importunate. I should iiave 
gained time ; and Sir Mark, I have no doubt, could have given me 
some necessary assistance. But, if you cannot say, ‘Yes’ to the 
truest gentleman I know, of course, there is little more to be said. 
It is a subject upon which I should not dream of coercing you, but 
for your own sake, if not for mine, reflect before it proves too late. 
If 1 sink, you must of necessity sink with me, as we both sail in the 
same boat ; but for me it makes less difference, my sands being 
nearly run, though I confess it does seem hard to commence my life 
again with my gray hairs.” 

The last was a skillful touch. Miss Blount rose, pale and in deep 
distress. It was odd, now that the nerves of both were unstrung, 
what a wonderful likeness existed between the father and daughter. 

“ What can have happened?” she asked, her voice trembling pain- 
fully. “Has it really gone so far as to be beyond hope? Can 
nothing be done to save you ?” 

“Nothing,” her father answered, with just the proper amount of 
heart-broken sadness in his intonation — the man was a consummate 
actor in his own quiet self-possessed way. “If you will not or can 
not help me, I am indeed hopeless. However, I think more sadly 
of your fate than of my own, Katherine, as I am only an old man 
now, without many years of life before me, and with few things to 
wish for, beyond a great longing to die in my childhood’s home, 
while you are strong and youthful, and have many days before you. 
Useless lamenting, however, does sinall good, I have heard; so we 
will say no more about it — it will not be for long. Heath is some- 
. times very merciful.” 

“Oh, not that, not that!” cried Katherine, stopping him sudden- 
ly in his restless promenade, and throwing unselflsh, tender arms 
around his neck, while feeling, woman like, now that he was cast so 
completely on her mercy and in such deep trouble, how infinitely 
dearer he was to her than he had ever been before — “not while it is 
in my power to prevent it ! Oh, darling” — bursting into a passion 
of despairing tears — “I may not have been a good daughter to you 
till now. but only give me a little time to think, and I will do the 
best 1 can for you!” 

For ouce in his life Archibald Blount was really touched by the 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


n 

unmerited, tender devotion of the daughter he had so persistently 
neglected. 

“Katherine,” he whispered, gently, holding her very closely to 
him, and feeling at the moment some faint, long-forgotten sensa- 
tions arising in his degenerate bosom for the tender clinging crea- 
ture in his arms, “if you can do this thing, you will be giving me 
what I shall bless you for to the day of my death; but I hardly 
dare to ask it — what is my happiness in comparison with yours? 
Remember, I have seen my best days, yours are yet to come; and, 
believe me, but that I know you to be heart-whole, I would not 
press the matter so perseveringly. You are heart-whole, Katherine 
— you do not love any one else?” 

“No, 1 do not love any one else,” Miss Blount answered, bravely; 
but as she told the lie she covered her face with her hands, and 
turned away, feeling faint and sick and cold. Presently she raised 
her head. “Let me go now,” she said; “I want to be alone. Good- 
night, papa.” 

“Good-night, my dear,” he returned, pressing his lips to hers with 
more than his wonted fervor, as he felt his cause was gained. 

When she was gone, and the last glimpse of her dress had disap- 
peared through the door, Archibald Blount raised himself, and 
drew a long deep breath. He was too well-bred and refined a man 
ever to exult openly in any triumph, however great, but his eyes 
looked brighter, and his step sounded more firmly as he walked. 

“Poor little girl,” he murmured, half absently to himself, as he lit 
his bedroom lamp. “1 wonder if she cares at all for Craven. I hope 
she does not,— from my soul I hope she does not;” after which touch- 
ing hopefulness on his part he went up-stairs and into bed, where he 
slept long and peacefully. 

Not so did the “poor little girl.” Arrived in her own bed-room, 
Katherine Blount locked the door, and, without removing ornaments 
or any article of dress, walked towards the window and leaned her 
beautiful shapely head against the dew-cold glass. 

The moon was shining on her pale and placid; the dazzling twink- 
ling stars gleamed down upon the silent earth ; a strange, sweet night 
it seemed, filled with a sadness responsive to her own, that almost 
entreated confidence, but Katherine neither moved, nor moaned, nor 
we})t. 

With dull, unnatural calmness she went over the whole night’ 
events, weighing one thing against another, until all appeared quite 


34 


SWEET IS TRUE LOX^E. 


clear* Once only she lifted her head in silent protest to the starry 
heavens, murmuring, desperately, “1 caiiiiol;’' but before the rebel!, 
ions words were fairly uttered she knew herself how worthless they 
were. After that she covered her face and, kneeling down upon the 
floor, went deliberately through the many happy scenes and tender 
recollections of her one love-story, in which Blackwood Craven shone 
out brightly and alone; with bitter remorse she remembered now how 
often she had bestowed a frown, a hasty, unkind word, where it 
would have been so easy, so much more true to her real nature, to 
confer a caress or a considerate speech. Never again could she make 
amends for all her past deliberate cruelties. Ah, if she had but 
known! 

So the hours passed, — swiftly enough to the girl who, with dry eyes 
and burning, brain, was bidding an eternal farewell to the sacred ro- 
mance of her youth, — heavily enough no doubt to those who sat and 
watched their sacred dead. Presently one by one the stars paled, 
and in their place came faintest streaks of crimson in the distant 
east, betokening gloriously the coming morn. Katherine rose from 
her knees, and, flinging wide the casement, as though to gain some 
air, glanced longingly upwards towards the rising sun ; and as she 
looked, lo, all the warmth of heaven came pouring down, and dark- 
ness lightened into golden day ! 

With the dawn came her determination. Turning slowly away 
from the open window, through which a lark’s loud song of praise 
rushed with tumultuous music, she moved with stiffened limbs across 
the room, her poor heart torn and bleeding. 

The next morning Sir Mark Warrenne went home rejoicing, the 
accepted lover of beautiful Katherine Blount, while his lady-love ful- 
filled her daily duties with palid face and clouded eyes, and thoughts 
“all void of soul.” Blackwood she had not seen all day, having ex- 
cused herself from breakfast on the plea of nervous headache,— not 
all excuse, — but, coming suddenly into the old parlor some little time 
before dinner, she discovered Blackwood sitting there, busily em- 
* ployed making cartridges for the morrow’s shooting. For a second 
her courage failed her completely, but only for a second ; then she 
rallied her spirits and came forward, speaking brav^ely enough, though 
in tones strangely dull and unlike her usual voice, which was sweet 
and musical. 

“Blackwood, I want to tell you something.” 

Her manner startled liiin; he flung down the unfinished cartridge 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


3 ^ 


the contents of which ran swiftly, with a tiny rattling noise, from otf 
the table down about the oaken floor, while a terrible sense of impend, 
ing evil half choked iiim, his face blanching, in the fashion peculiar 
to him when anything unpleasant about Katherine came under his 
notice, 

“What is it?” he asked, shortly. 

“I have promised to marry Sir Mark Warren ne,” she answered, 
just as shortly, trying to appear unconcerned, but failing wretchedly. 

For, a full minute Blackwood Craven went mad, — as mad as the 
veriest lunatic that ever trod the floors of Bedlam. He strode for- 
ward, and seized her small wrists with cruel vehemence, almost crush- 
ing the tender bones in his passionate grasp. 

“Say that again?” he cried, fiercely, threateningly; while “Black- 
wood, Blackwood!” was all poor Katherine could gasp, with faint 
supplication. Presently however, the paroxysm passed, leaving him 
sane, but despairing; he dropped her hands hurriedly; the iron had 
entered into his soul, and at tlie first cold touch the madness fled. 
He turned to the window quietly. 

“Has it come to this at last?” he said. 

Miss Blount sank into a chair, and for a short time there was a 
dead silence in the room, during which they scarcely seemed to 
breathe. To Katherine the stillness was intolerable; any open tor- 
ture would have been less bitter. At all hazards she felt she must 
see his face again; so, stealing over to hiS side, she placed a timid, 
trembling hand upon his arm. 

“Blackwood, have some pity!” she whispered, beseechingly, rais- 
ing to his face great lustrous, pleading eyes. 

“Pity!” he echoed, contemptuously, shaking off her hand as 
though it scorched his flesh, and moving backwards a few steps. 
“Pity for what? Because you are going to marry the richest man 
in the county, and a baronet into the bargain, or because you have 
wisely thrown over the man who was imbecile enough to imagine he 
possessed your extremely salable affections, — which ? My pity would 
be rather wasted, I fancy, were I to bestow it on you, so I will re- 
serve any I may have for Sir Mark Warren ne, as I do not know of 
any of my acquaintances so much in need of it as he is just now. 
Meanwhile, I beg to offer you my warmest congratulations on your 
success and approaching happiness.” 

“Blackwood,” the girl began, vehemently, stung to the quick by 
his instinuations, but endeavoring eagerly, with tightly clinched 


3(3 SIVMET IS TRUE LOVE. 

hands, to speak with calmness, “will you not listen to me? I swear — 

“Hush!” he interrupted her, sternly, with cold cruel scorn, put- 
ting up his hand to prevent her speaking further, “you need not 
perjure yohrself any more. It is unnecessary. I am scarcely in a 
condition, you see, to believe the remainder of your protestations. 
You have said quite enough to last me. my lifetime, so I will not 
trouble you with my presence any longer. I leave with you what 
must be a pleasant reflection, — the knowledge that you have utterly 
ruined my existence.” 

“Are you going?” Katherine gasped. “For how long?” 

“Forever,” he answered, briefly, turning towards the door as he 
spoke. 

Just for one moment Miss Blount felt stunned — crushed, — and 
then, with a bitter cry, she roused herself and tried to reach him, 
but found she could not, — some power within her numbed her limbs, 
and left her without strength to move. Her love, her life, was go- 
ing, but she could only hold out her hands to him in passionate, 
wild entreaty. 

“Blackwood, Blackwood,” she implored, “do not leave me like 
this! Say something to me before you go!” 

He turned as he reached the threshold, to gaze his last upon the 
exquisite agonized face he loved so dearly, and the tender arms out- 
held in pitiful, mute supplication. But even then he did not relent. 

“I will,” he said, with vehement bitterness. “As you ask it, you 
can take this as my ‘gopd-by,’ — remember the last words I said to 
you were these: “I curse the day I ever saw you.” So, with black 
anger at his heart, he passed out from the house that had been his 
pleasant home from childhood, a despairing, broken-hearted man, 
leaving the woman who was to him the dearest being on earth in a 
dead, cold swoon, her soft brown hair sweeping the polished floor. 


CHAPTER V. 

* 

When October had come, and was well-nigh gone, Katherine 
Blount married Sir Mark Warrenne, and went for a three months’ 
wedding tour to Italy. 

From the hour of Blackwood’s abrupt departure the girl had faded 
perceptibly, without any visible cause. With a terrible longing she 
waited for many weeks for some word or token from her cousin 
which should soften the bitterness of his last cruel farewell, but no 


SWEET IS TRUE LO VE. 


37 

letter *4a.^iie ; and day by day, as it seemed to Sir Mark’s anxious 
gaze, — he being perfectly ignorant of the fatal attachment existing 
between his promised wife and Blackwood Craven,— she appeared to 
be slowly but surely sinking into confirmed ill health. So he pleaded 
earnestly for early wedding, that should give him the right to 
take her away for some time to other scenes and climates and so 
bring back the roses to his darling’s cheeks. 

Miss Blount, in the usual listless manner that had of late become 
habitual to the once gay little beauty, consented, after a faint but 
ineffectual demur, and named the dreaded day that should forever 
cut her off from all thought of Blackwood Craven; after which she 
endured in her own heart a silent purgatory, invisible to those around 
uer, but which paralyzed her and seemed to drain her life-blood drop 
py drop. 

Plarriet Charteris alone, with a woman’s true instinct, guessed 
exactly how matters stood, and would have striven with all her 
might to comfort and eonsole the girl she so well loved, had not Miss 
Blount’s distant, cold demeanor forbidden any attempts at probing 
her hidden wound. 

Once only had Harriet made a faint effort to advice or console, an 
effort which, as she had dreaded, resulted in nothing but signal 
failure. It was one morning about a fortnight before the day ar- 
ranged for the wedding, and Miss Blount had ridden over to consult 
her friend on some trivial matter with regard to it; she had stayed 
a considerable time even after the communication had been made 
and an answer received, in a rather more restless, impatient mood 
than was habitual even with her, and Harriet, who was possessed of 
a nature both true and loyal to the heart’s core, and who loved well 
when she loved at all, had worked herself into a state of misery 
indescribable. 

In like manner the children, having guessed — with the wonderful 
unerring instinct of childhood — that something was amiss with their 
favorite Katherine, had abstained from their usual wild merriment, 
to sit beside her and slip their tiny hands within her own in silent 
sympathy, with wide-open questioning eyes, that touched the girl’s 
excited feelings more keenly than any offered consolation could have 
done, and nearly broke her aching heart. 

She got up at last, moving away from them to the window, where 
she watched with burning tearless eyes the weary wa^ste of falling au.- 
turan leaves which stretched before her, 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


Mrs. Charteris, seeing all this in her anxious, compassionate 
watchfulness, had waved the boys from the room with a covert mo- 
tion of the hand, and then gone over to where Miss Blount was 
standing. 

“Katherine,” she said, in a soft, low, soothing tone, “my dear, 
dear girl, tell me, do you regret anything?” 

]\liss Blount turned suddenly, almost defiantly. 

“No, I regret nothing,” she replied; after which, although pre- 
sently she changed her mood and kissed Mrs. Charteris silently, with 
tears in her beautiful eyes, the latter understood perfectly that ne 
more words wei*e to be said on the subject. 

About the end of January Sir Mark and Lady Warrenne returned 
to the Hall, which, by the baronet’s orders, had been magnificently 
restored during their absence, things having gone more or less to de- 
cay during all those years that he had spent wandering in Italy and 
elsewliere. 

iMrs. Charteris was delighted to find her friend considerably 
changed for the better. She had gained flesh, had brought back a 
brighter color in her fair face, and would have been altogether quite 
like (he Katherine of old but for her eyes. In them lay perpetually 
a weary, dissatisfied, ho})eless expression, that told but too clearly 
how comfortless was the heart within. 

She clung to Harriet when they first' met after their long separa- 
tion, and burst into a passion of tears that frightened the latter a 
good deal: after which she told her, with rather a wintry smile, that 
sh(‘ ought to be flattered at the amount of affection she entertained 
for her, as shown by the fact that she found it impossible to go away 
for a few months without behaving like a baby when they met again, 
— all of which had the effect of making Mrs. ( fiiarteris feel very sad 
and doubtful, and doubly tender.that evening to the husband and 
children that awaited her. 

It so happened that two weeks after their return Sir Mark had 
occasion to go to London for a day. Katherine not caring to accom- 
pany him, he went on his short journey alone; and, as he was strol- 
ling leisurely dowi) Ilegent Street to execute some trifling commis- 
sion'forhis wife, whom should he meet, face to face, but Blackwood 
Cr.i ven, looking changed and careworn beyond description. 

The two men met with an expression of cordiality that on one 
side was by no nieaiis genuine, although Sir Mark, who was naturally 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 39 

of a most kindly, open-hearted disposition, was unfeignedly glad to 
meet his old acquaintance again. 

“\yhy, Craven,” heexclaimed, heartily, ‘‘who would have dreamed 
of seeing you here! 1 heard from Blount that you were stationed 
somewhere in the south.” 

“I got a few weeks’ leave,” Blackwood returned, listlessly, “and, 
having nothing better to do, thought I would knock about London 
a bit and see some of my old friends.” 

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Sir Mark. “Come down with me 
to the Hall, and I will promise you as good shooting as ever you had 
— you cannot do better. And my wife will be delighted to see you ; 
you and she were always so intimate, you know.” 

“Iliswife!” Blackwood’s face paled in the old manner, and he 
winced almost perceptibly. “His wife!” “Glad to see liim!” Had 
she, then, been discussing his misery? Could she really be soindif- ^ 
ferent to him as all that? 

“Thank yon,” he said, coldly, “but I don’t fancy I can manage it.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” Warrenne broke in, hos[)itably. “You can man- 
age it easily enough ; so say ‘Yes’ at once, and meet me at the down 
train this evening. We will take Kat herine by surprise, and make 
her perfectly liappy — seeing you will remind her so of old times. 
Besides, the change of air will do you all the good in the world.” 

Every word thus unconsciously uttered was a stab to tlie bleeding 
heart of Blackwood Craven, and inwardly he writlied under Sir 
Mark’s comments with an agony beyond ail physical pain. OKI 
times, old memories, tender by-gone scenes, rose up before him, only 
to give place to the remembrance that she was his no longer, but the 
happy contented wife of this man who stood waiting for an answer ; 
and then a wild, half-frantic desire to see her once more — in her 
new home, in her character of a married woman — took possession of 
him, driving away all other wiser tYioughts and resolves. 

“Well, thank you,” he decided, suddenly ; “yes, I will come. You 
are right; it will do me ati^infinite amount of good to see all my fa- 
vorite haunts again;' so you may expect to see me at the station.” 

“That’s right,.” 'Sir Mark answered, real pleasure shining in his 
handsome blue eyes; as he contemplated Katherine’s astonishment 
and delight. “Good by, then, for the present; and do not be late, 
old man, whatever you do.” 

So it came to pass that Blackwood Craven actually started that 
night to spend some days under Katherine’s Warrenne’s roof. The 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, 


40 

weather was bitterly cold, frost and snow lying heavily upon the 
ground, as they drove along to Warrenne Hall, but he scarcely 
seemed to heed it; the whole journey appeared to him like some ex- 
citing dream that would vanish presently and leave him in his own 
quarters in London, far enough from the Hall and its inhabitants. 

It was not until they drew up at the Hall door, and Sir Mark ad- 
vised him to alight, “unless he had a fancy for being frozen to 
death,” that he fully awoke to the reality of the situation. 

“Come along,” Sir Mark exclaimed, eagerly, when the servant in- 
formed him where her ladyship was to be found. “Come along, 
Craven ; Barnet will see to your gun-case.” 

At this juncture Blackwood’s heart began to fail him horribly. 
How would she meet him? he asked himself, hurriedly. Would she 

faint? Would she show any agitation? Or would she 

^ “Warrenne,” he said, stopping short, and endeavoring to speak 
with unconcern, “would it not be better, perhaps, to tell Lady War- 
renne that — that I am come?” - 

“Oh, nonsense, man!” returned Sir Mark, with a half-smile of 
astonishment, pausing to contemplate his companion unsuspicious- 
ly. “You do not suppose she requires the news to be broken to her, 
do you — you, who were almost a brother? Come on.” 

So after this, there being no help for it. Craven, with a smothered 
groan, followed his guide into a small, elegant apartment, where, at 
the farthest end, sat busily embroidering the woman he loved. Lady 
Warrenne did not perceive him until she had returned her husband’s 
embrace, when Sir Mark said, pleasantly — 

“Katherine, I have brought you your oldest friend;” and she, 
looking up curiously, gazed straight into Blackwood Craven’s eyes. 

For a moment — for just one brief moment of agony — she thought 
she was going to faint, to disgrace herself forever in her own and 
her husband’s opinion ; and then ^she found herself moving forward 
and saying something common-place to Blackwood about his being 
welcome, and so forth — what, exactly, she could never afterwards 
remember. A cloud seemed gathering round her, choking, suffo- 
cating her in its cold embrace, from beyond which her husband’s 
voice came to her, true and loving as ever — 

“We are starving, my darling. Can Brander give us something, 
if I ring the bell?” 

“I will go and see myself,” she said, catching eagerly and gladly 
at the chance thus afforded her of getting away from the room; and 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


41 


from the one man whom, in all the world, she dreaded. 

For half an hour she was absent, which time she employed in walk- 
ing wildly up and down her own chamber, trying anxiously to collect 
her ideas and to conquer the fierce pain gnawing so persistently at her 
heart. 

“I have saved my father,” she kept repeating to herself over and 
over again, until she had grown tolerably calm ; then she went back 
again to the obnoxious boudoir, only to find that Sir Mark and her 
cousin had gone down to the dining-room to discuss the good things 
Brander had thought fit to place before them. Thither she also de- 
scended, — nervous, lest either of them should notice anything unusual 
in her conduct, — and, taking a chair near her husband’s side, as far 
from Blackwood as was possibje, she tried hard to say something 
civil and pleasant about their journey. 

“It would have been lonely enough without Craven,” Sir Mark 
told her, ’‘although I can scarcely cry him up as the j oiliest compan- 
ion in all the world, considering that he never opened his lips the 
entire way. And— would you believe it, Katherine? — it was quite 
as much as I could do to induce him to grant us the pleasure of his 
society, even for a few days? I told him I would complain of his con- 
duct to you, and throw him on the tender mercies of a woman’s tongue. 
But,” he broke off somewhat anxiously, “are you feeling quite strong 
to-night, my dearest? Your cheeks have lost all the bright color 
they gained in Italy. Did you go for your drive this afternoon?” 

“Yes; I went to see Harriet,” Katherine answered, ignoring the be’ 
ginning of his speech, “but the day was bleak, and I felt cold, — so 
cold,” — tightening her hands nervously. “I thing I will bid you 
good-night now, and goto my room, as it is rather late,” — rising as 
she concluded, and holding out her hand to Craven. “Good-night, 
Blackwood,” she said, quite calmly, but without raising her eyes fo 
meet his; and, having pressed her lips to Sir Mark’s forehead, she 
went quietly away. 

During his stay at the Hall Craven saw but little of Lady Warr- 
enne, he and Sir Mark going shooting or being otherwise engaged 
out of doors the entire day until dinner-time, after which Katherine 
avoided, with a heedfulness that almost amounted to nervous horror, 
anything resembling a tete-a-tete, Kor, to tell the truth, was Black- 
wood by any means desirous to obtain one. 

From the first moment when Katherine’s beautiful idolized face 
had come before him again in the boudoir, he iiad never ceased regret- 


42 


SWEET IS 7 RUE LOVE. 


ting the step that had brought him once more under her influence, 
and longed earnestly for the hour that should see him back in London 
again, or with his regiment, or anywhere, so that he might get be- 
yond the gaze of her large, unhappy eyes. At last the mental tor- 
ture he was enduring became so unbearable that he determined to end 
it one way or another, and after passing a sleepless night came to the 
conclusion thatth^ next day — his fifth — should be the last of his res- 
idence at Warrenne Hall. 

Having made up his mind to this, he determined tp say nothiiig 
of his intention until the morning of his departure, when he would 
find some excuse in his letters to leave by the early train, which 
started about an hour after the usual breakfast-time. 

Feeling happier in his mind now that lie had arranged his private 
affairs so satisfactory, he started with Sir Mark about eleven to go 
through his last day’s shooting at the hall. 

It was a magnificent day for the sport they had in view, though 
decidedly cold and bitter for all those not imbued with a passion for 
out-door amusements. Having ascertained from 'ihe keeper accom^ 
panying them the nearest way to the desired rendezvous, they walked 
on smartly for about a quarter of a mile, when Sir Mark suddenly 
discovered that he was without fusees or anything else wherewith to 
light his pipe. This was indeed a serious consideration, especially as 
Craven confessed himself iii the same plight, and the keeper had evi- 
dently been depending upon the other two both for a light and 
tobacco. 

“I will run back,” said Craven. “Tell me where to find some? 
and I will overtake you in less than no time; or else I will go by the 
ower field and pick you up farther on.” 

“Just step into the library by the French window,” directed Sir 
Mark, “and you will find some on the table which 1 left there last 
night, in a little silver affair.” 

Thus instructed Blackwood betook himself back once more to the 
Hall, where, entering the library by the French window, he came 
suddenly upon Lady Warrenne, seated reading in a large arm-chair. 
It was the first time they had been alone since that last ev^entful 
day when he had bidden her what had been intended to be a final 
farew^ell, so that now, finding himself in her presence in this totally 
unexpected manner, his courage and coolness deserted him to some 
extent. 

‘•I beg your pardon, Lady Warrenne,” he began, pausing a mO' 


43 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 

ment before entering,— he had never called her “Tita” since his ar- 
rival, nor even Katherine, confining herself to her title, — “but War- 
renne told me— I came back for some vesuvians of his lying on the 
table.” 

Lady Warrenne rose gracefully. 

“Are these what you are looking for?” she asked, lifting the little 
silver match-box and holding it out to him. 

“Yes, thank you,” he answered, coldly, coming across the room 
to receive them from her hand. 

As he did so, their eyes met, and a wild, unconquerable desire 
possessed Katherine to be friends with him at all hazards. 

“Blackwood, forgive me!” she whispered, gently, laying her hand 
upon his arm. “If he does,” she thought, her heart beating rapidly, 
—“if he puts me now at peace with my own conscience,—! will tell 
Mark everything this evening, and perhaps some day 1 shall be hap- 
py.” Meanwhile, Craven had taken the little fingers that lay like a 
snow-fiake on the coarse cloth of his shooting-jacket, and spread them 
out silently on his own brown palm, but not a shadow of forgiveness 
crossed his face. 

“Look here,” he said: “so long as I can remember that this hand 
belongs to another man, let him be who he may, dead or alive, so 
long I will not forgive you.” 

“Meaning ‘Never’?” she asked, quietly, growing deathly pale. 

“Meaning ‘Never,’” Blackwood Craven answered, just as quietly, 
loosening her hand unrelentingly. 

“You are very hard on me,” she said, presently, seeing that he 
either could not or would not speak. 

“Hard on you!” he repeated, with the concentrated bitterness of 
months in liis voice. “How like a woman that is, — first employing 
every artifice to gain a man’s honest affection, — waiting until she 
discovers that his very soul is scarce his own, — and then fiinginghim 
over for the first good match she can find, and, having succeeded in 
embittering his whole existence, thinking it ‘hard’ that he does not 
turn round and humbly kiss her hand ! No,” — with a bitter laugh, 
— “you have misjudged my character. I am a good hater, most of 
my tender feelingshaving taken flight since last September; and I 
hardly find myself sufficiently moral to appreciate the benefits to be 
received by kissing the proverbial ‘rod.’ ” 

“Oh, Blackwood,” she murmured, “I think you would be a little 
jnoro merciful is you only knew how I have longed for your forgive^ 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


44 

ness and how miserable I am without it!” 

“I hope in reality, you are,” he answered, savagely. ^‘What! 
Did not your riches after all, then, bring you the return you antici- 
pated? A just retribution, and one hardly to be expected in this 
world, where the undeserving mostly come by their own ! This is the 
last conversation, in all probability, I shall ever hold with you on 
earth, as I go away to-morrow morning early, and embark for India 
in another month or six weeks : so I will waste no more hard words, 
having let you know, once for all, the esteem in which I hold you.” 
As he finished speaking, he walked towards the window by which he 
had entered. 

As she saw him moving away from her, forever, as it appeared, — 
this man, so cruelly unkind, so deeply loved, so irreparably wronged, 
— Lady Warrenne’s heart sank within her: she burst into a storm of 
sobs, passionate, despairing, and made one last effort to obtain the 
pardon she, in her loneliness, so eagerly craved. 

“Blackwood,” she cried, ‘‘oh, wait for one moment more, only 
one! If you would but hear me, — if you only knew all, — you would 
not think me so base as you think me now. Have not I suffered 
also? Have you had all the pain? Ah, surely, surely you will not 
go away forever without saying one kind word to me, whom once 
you loved!” 

She held out her small hands to him beseechingly, sobbing with 
painful vehemence. Her beautiful face was wet with sad repentant 
tears, and Blackwood, looking on, saw, as in some well-remembered 
dream, the same form, the sam^e hands held out to him, as in the old 
oak parlor at the Manor so many months since. 

The sight of her bitter grief roused within him all the better feel- 
ings of his manhood: his stubborn will grew weaker, his heart re- 
lented. Striding afeross the room to her side, he accepted the prof- 
fered hands. 

“You have conquered,” he said, hoarsely. “I leave you my full 
and free forgiveness ; take it, and be happy in your new life. But, 
for all that, it is, indeed, farewell between us two. I shall never 
again enter your presence, or listen to your voice, or look on your 
l)eloved face; so bid me good-by now, and — and may heaven bless 
and keep you, my one love!” His accents were broken with emotion. 

Katherine, her prayer granted, the dear wish of her heart fulfill- 
ed, nevertheless could not speak the last sad word that should part 
them forevor in this world. She oould only stoop, mid between her 


SWEET IS true ZOPfE, 4i 

sobs press a timid, humble little caress upon his clasping hand : 
after which she turned away despairingly, and he passed out into 
the raw cold air to meet the fate that awaited him. 

When he was gone. Lady Warrenne went up to her own room, 
and dressed herself hurriedly to go out into the leafless woods — 
anywhere away from the stifling atmosphere of the house — and en- 
deavor to shake off the terrible depression that weighed her down 
as though determined to crush her to the ground. Perhaps, it was 
the knowledge of Blackwood’s departure, perhaps, it was the sense 
of coming evil; who shall say? 

But there it lay, the leaden weight, cold and heavy on her heart, 
pursuing her through the sighing woods and into the clearing be- 
yond, like a dark ill-omened thing, that never left her until, having 
gained a small copse on her right hand, she saw Blackwood Craven 
walking before her, gun in hand. She had seen him for barely an 
instant — nay, afterwards it almost seemed as though there was not 
a second’s interval — when the report of a gun rang through the air, 
followed by a sharp agonized cry that told but too surely of death’s 
victory, and Blackwood, with a dull, crashing, lifeless sound, fell to 
the sodden earth. 

Lady Warrenne sprang forward and knelt down by his side, just 
as Sir Mark, from an opposite direction, came hurrying up, having 
also heard both the gun’s report and its attendant cry. 

Katherine had Blackwood’s head on her knees, and was pushing 
back the hair from his forehead, in a half-unconscious, dazed man- 
ner, when he reached her. 

“Katherine,” he exclaimed, “what has happened?” — stooping 
down and tearing open the young man’s coat, only to lay his hand 
upon a heart that but too surely had ceased to beat. 

Sir Mark felt his face growing cold, his limbs trembling. It was 
too awful, too horrible to contemplate; he could not believe it. 
Only half an hour since, Craven had been in such life and spirits — 
it appeared to Sir Mark now that he had never seen him in such 

good spirits as that morning — and now — now Katherine, too ; 

how did she come there?- It was no place for her, poor delicate dar- 
ling. She must be got home in some way or other. He stepped for- 
ward, and tried to raise the lifeless head from her supporting arms. 
She pushed him from her. 

“Do not you see. that he is dead?” she said, in an awful whisper 
— ^^dead^ Go away, and do not disturb him. He is mine now, you 


IS TRUE LOVE. 


46 

know, my own; you cannot grudge him to me any longer’^ — plac- 
ing, as she spoke, her small fingers over the dead eyes lovingly. 

“Katherine I” Sir Mark exclaimed, half fearing that the horror 
of the scene had stolen away her senses, and half fearing something 
else that sent the blood rushing wildly to his heart. “Do not speak 
like that, my darling. Give him to me, and t-ell me how it happen- 
ed, if you can.” 

“Liis gun went off and shot him. I saw it all quite distinctly,” 
Katherine explained, methodically. “He gave a cry — oh, such a 
cry! — and then he fell. Do not change his position, Mark; it is 
useless; and he is lying just where he would have chosen to lie, 
could he but know it.” Then, her tone of horrible calmness sud- 
denly changing to one of the wildest despair, she exclaimed, pas- 
sionately, wringing her hands, “Oh, Blackwood, speak to me, speak 
to me! I will not believe that you are dead. Mark, save him! do 
something for him ! Do you ivish him to die, that you stand there 
so coldly, without an attempt of any kind to save him ? Oh, my 
love, my love, why cannot I lie there instead of you, so peacefully 
at rest?” 

Her eyes were dry and tearless, but hopeless misery was written 
on every lineament of her expressive face, and she seemed to take 
no notice whatever of Sir Mark, who stood beside her in silence, too 
stricken for consolation or speech of any kind, but waking slowly to 
the consciousness that his wife — whom for all these past months he 
had been cherishing in the fond hope that one day she would love 
him as he loved her — had long years ago given all the priceless 
treasure of her heart to another man. 

And Blackwood, — now, for the first time, he understood his evi- 
dent reluctance to visit Warrenne Hall, a reluctance that at the 
moment had seemed to Sir Mark so singular. Poor Craven! — 
though it appeared to Warrenne just then, standing there full of life 
and health above the dead man, that, if Blackwood had been carry- 
ing as sore a heart in his bosom as he himself was carrying now, his 
lot was by far the happier of the two. At this point in his medita- 
tions the keeper appeared at some little distance among the trees, 
and Sir Mark went hurridly to meet him. 

“Mr. Craven has shot himself,” he explained, briefly. “Run to 
the house or one of the nearest cottages, and bring something to 
carry him home upon.” 

After what seemed to the silent watchers an interminable delay, 


i 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. M 

the man returned, bringing with him some farming-men and a rude 
impromptu litter, on which, with gentle, kindly hands, they laid 
poor Craven and bore him in solemn awe-struck speechlessness to the 
Hall, 

Here they were met by Archibald Blount, shocked out of all his 
indolent selfishness as he gazed with uneasy conscience at his 
nephew’s corpse, and remembered with deep remorse, for the fiist 
time, how fatal all that past scene in the Manor library had been to 
the happiness of the poor boy now lying dead before his eyes. 

They carried Blackwood up-stairs, and laid him upon his bed, 
after which doctors were sent for, as a matter of duty, though in 
this case there was not the faintest ray of hope to sustain the 
mourners with fond delusive dreams until the final fiat should be 
uttered. 

When all was done that tenderness <xnd love could do, Lady War- 
renne went down-stairs, pallid and heart-broken, to where bir Mark 
was sitting in his private room, his face buried in his hands. 

“I have come to tell you all about it,” she said, going over to him 
and laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

He rose, placed a chair for her, with a weariness in his manner 
that at any other time most surely must have touched her, and then 
motioned to her to proceed. She told him her whole story from be- 
ginning to end, glossing over nothing, making nothing worse, and 
waited when her sad liistory was finished to hear what he would say, 
to receive all the hard words and harder reproaches which she felt 
she deserved at his hands, — to reap the fruit of her father’s sowing. 

Warrenne got up and came over to her in the gathering twilight, 
pausing beside her chair. 

“My poor darling,” he said, gently, — “my poor little girl!” And 
that was all. 

Simple words they were in themselves, but surely heaven-born in 
their tender pity. Those few loving terms, coming from the quarter 
whence she had least right to expect them, did more for her certainly 
than all the harsh measures that could have been used. She bowed 
her fair sorrowing head upon her hands, and burst into bitter, albeit 
soothing, tears. 

‘•Do not cry, my dear,” said Sir Mark; “perhaps it is better as it 
is. Poor Blackwood I — his was a hard life, and a harder fate; blit 
yet, Katherine, there is another who, to know that he was loved by 
you as he has loved, would gladly change places with Blackwood 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


48 

this moment. Oh, darling, I think of the two my portion is the 
harder to bear! But tell me now what you would wish me to do for 
you, and I will do it.’’ 

“I only want to go away, — to be anywhere by myself, — to be 
alone,” Katherine sobbed, faintly, without raising her head. 

“So you shall,” Warrenne answered, bravely, although a sharp 
spasm of agony shot across and disfigured his handsome Saxon face 
for an instant. “You shall go away by yourself, but not ‘anywhere.’ 
I have another estate in Warwickshire, a pretty secluded place 
enough, that shall be all your own exclusively, if you will have it.” 

“And you?” his wife asked, looking up at him anxiously for the 
first time. 

“Oh, as for me,” Sir Mark replied, endeavoring to speak cheerfully, 
but turning away his face that she might not see what havoc the last 
few hours had wrought upon it, “I shall go abroad and return once 
more to my old wandering habits! Do not trouble yourself about 
my welfare: 1 shall do very well, I dare say. But in your new home, 
Katherine, you must learn to be happier than you have ever been in 
this, my poor love: yet I meant to make your life a pleasant one, no 
matter how dismally I failed. You will learn to forget all these late 
griefs and sorrows in time, when you haVe no one near to remind 
you of them, not even me, as I promise faithfully you shall not see 
me again until you wish for me. A nonsensical speech,” he added, 
with a little wistful smile, “that only proves to myself how long my 
banishment will be!” 

To this she made no answer, — indeed, he scarcely seemed to expect 
^ dead silence that lasted for several minutes fell upon 
them both. Lady Warrenne, sitting there in the huge crimson 
chair, her tiny figure half hidden in the velvet cushions, might have 
been mistaken for a marble statue robed, so motionless she sat: wliile 
over her, tall and fair, stood Sir Mark, like some ancient knight 
guarding a sleeping fairy. Presently he broke the spell. 

“Good-by, Katherine,” he said. 

'^Good-by I' rising from among the cushions and looking half fright- 
ened; “good-by, — so soon!” 

“Yes; it is better so.” He had conceived the idea, poor fellow, 
that he was more or less of a nuisance to his own wife, and, though 
v,pry loath to part with what he loved so well, still he could not en- 
dure the thought that his presence was distasteful to her. “I will 
arrange everything for you, Katherine, so do not put yourself to any 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, 


49 


trouble ; but, if you have any particular wish, you had better tell it 
to me now, as I have business that will take me to town early to-mor- 
row morning. You can start for Tyne Royal the day after that, or 
the next day, unless” — dropping his voice — “you would prefer re- 
maining here until after the funeral.” Katherine shivered. “I 
think that is all I have to say,” he went on, a faint tremor pervad. 
ing his voice in spite of all his manliness. “So now bid me good 
by, my darling, and — and — think of me sometimes, Kathefinel” 

Lady Warrenne strove hard to speak, but the words appeared to 
freeze upon her lips ; speech and thought seemed alike to have de- 
serted her; she could only remember clearly that Blackwood was 
gone, that Mark was going, and that all the world beyond was a 
blank to her for evermore ; while the same dark sense of lingering 
evil that had haunted her all the morning fell upon her heart, once 
more, threatening to stifle her with its vague dull pain. She felt 
her senses leaving her, when Sir Mark's voice brought her back 
again to a slight remembrance of the present. 

“Katherine, Katherine,” he cried, bitter pain and disappointment 
mingled in his tones, “you are silent! you do not even wish me God- 
speeed! Oh, darling, have you forgotton that I too love you with 
all my heart and soul? I am going away now, perhaps I shall never 
see you again: have you no word to say to me? Surely, before I 
leave, you will kiss me once of your own free will ?” 

Katherine went up to him as in a dream, and, putting her arms 
round his neck, raised her face to his. 

“Good-by, my love, good-by!” he whispered, hoarsely, pressing his 
lips to hers, and holding her close to as loyal and true a heart as ever 
man had ; but an instant later her head drooped upon his shoulder, 
while her form grew heavy in his arms, and he carried her up to her 
own room insensible. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“Tyne Royal, Oct. 10, 18—. 

“Dearest Harry, — Are you very angry with me because I never 
answered your long, kind letters? Well, I could not: that is my 
only excuse. And you will, I know, forgive me. I am very lonely 
here, and— and a little frightened. Will you come to me? Tell 
Charlie I will not keep you long,— only a very little time,— if he will 


SPVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


SO 

just spare you to me for a while. Give him and the children my 
love, and ever believe me your own Katherine. 

“P. S. — Oh, Harry, do come! I want you.” 

“Charlie,” cried Mrs. Charteris, springing to her feet, “this letter 
is from our Katherine. 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Charlie, feeling scarcely less excited, and 
entirely forgetting in his enthusiasm the “sweet thing” in cockchafers 
he had received by the morning’s post. “You don’t say so!” 

“Ah, yes, indeed, thank goodness, poor dear child! Listen toi 
what she says.” And Mrs. Charteris read the letter through once 
more, for her husband’s benefit. 

“You must go to her at once, Harry,” Mr. Charteris decided, 
when it was finished: “she is evidently dying of thej ‘blues.’ War- 
reiHie had no right to send her to such an isolated spot as I conclude 
this Tyne Royal must be, no matter how much she may have wished 
it. Could you not manage to bring her back here with you, Harry? 
Poor little soul, without a friend to speak to, no wonder she feels 
lonely!” * 

“You fancy it is loneliness,” said Harriet, slowly: “I do not. 
Charlie, did you never think?” 

An eloquent silence ensued. 

“No, I never did,” replied Charlie, quite slowly, a new light 
breaking in upon his hitherto darkened mind, and totally forgetful 
of all those abstruse calculations he went through daily in the “sanc- 
tum.” 

“Well, I did,” went on his wife, triumphantly: “and now I am 
sure of it.” 

“Bless me! ’’ejaculated Mr. Charteris; “that never occurred to 
me! 1 hope you are right: you generally are, indeed. Why, it 
would be the very best thing that could happen,— eh, don’t you think 
so? Harry, my dear, do not lose a moment ; I firmly believe that 
everything will come all right in the end now.” 

“I will go and pack up a few things this moment, and give some 
directions to Lawson; though how you and the children are to get 
on during my absence is more than I can imagine. You reallj^must 
promise me, Charlie, to give up your insects and nonsense while I 
am away, and keep the boys out of mischief, as I cannot depend upon 
a single servant in tlie place, and if Tinsley once gets into your 
laboratory he will undoubtedly blow himself up.” 

“He certainly has a wonderful genius for experimentalizing,” re- 


SWEET 13 TRUE LOVE. 


51 


turned Tinsley’s father, with a smile that expressed the highest pride 
in his first-born’s predilections. ‘'But you may be happy in your 
mind: I promise he shall not soil so much as thej;ips of his fingers, 
— in my apartments, at all events.” 

“That’s a dear boy,” said his wife, pleasantly, running out of the 
room to make preparations for her journey. 

She was a woman who always entered with her whole heart into 
any matter, however small, she had in hand, never letting “the grass 
grow under her feet;” and so the next evening, rather late, saw her 
alighting at the hall door of Katherine’s new residence, so fresh and 
charming as though railway-journeys and the fatigues accompanying 
them were of no consequence whatever. 

Tyne Royal, as she entered it, seemed almost as fine a house as 
Warrenne Hall, and by no means gloomy, as both she and Charlie 
had agreed to consider it. It was not so large, perhaps, as the latter 
residence, but was quite as beautifully kept up. Still, she had little 
time to institute comparisons as she followed the ancient butler up 
the broad carved staircase to the upper corridor, where she was met 
by an under-housemaid and a large, red-faced, muscular, and alto- 
gether remarkable looking person, with an eye that would have 
cowed a body-guard. 

This austere individual waited in solemn silence and a rather menac- 
ing attitude for Mrs. Charteris’s first remark. 

“How is Lady Warrenne?” Harriet asked, in a low, hushed tone, 
as though afraid of waking somebody. 

“Beautiful, ma’am, beautiful. You needn’t be nervious,” replied 
the Lady of the Bedchamber, with an obvious snitf, and at the very 
tip-top of her most energetic voice, as though determined to ignore 
Mrs. Charteris’s attempt at quietness. “Follow me, mum,” — lead- 
ing the way into an adjoining apartment, where, amidst a wilder- 
ness of pillows, lay Katherine Warrenne, with a little fragile morsel 
of humanity in her arms. 

“My darling!” cried the warm-hearted Harriet Charteris, with a 
sob of intense emotion, running over and kneeling down by her side, 
while Katherine could only throw her soft white arm round her 
friend’s neck and weep silent, joyful tears. 

Presently Mrs. Charteris became aware that something was due 
to the other small inmate of the chamber; so she pushed back the 
pink flannel to gaze at the wee face it contained, and was immedia- 
ly lost in admiration of the tiny wrinkled features, that looked like 


52 SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 

nothing in all the world so much as a quaint India-rubber painted 
face. 

“When was it?” she asked. 

“The very day I wrote to you,” Katherine answered, a proud, 
happy smile lighting up her small face ; “so my darling is just three 
days old,” — passing fond, loving fingers over the unconscious baby 
forehead. 

“A boy?” Harriet asked, again peering down mysteriously into 
the precious cosy bundle. 

“Yes, a boy!” Lady Warrenne responded, gratefully, though 
why she should have been so thankful that the child could come 
under the denomination of a “son and heir” Harriet could not con- 
ceive, unless, indeed, she fancied that somebody else might be so. 

“You naughty child, not to send for me before,” Mrs. Charteris 
said, lovingly. “I am really angry with you, and horribly jealous 
of that formidable dragon I met just outside your door, who seemed 
anxious to carry me off at once to the lock-up, and who I am sure 
would have killed you had not Providence sent me to the rescue. 
Well, now I am here, I have decided that I shall stay with you for 
a month, until you are perfectly strong and able to defy her ; so I 
constitute mysell your chief nurse in ordinary, with all due respect 
to your ‘old soldier.’ ” 

“Will you really stay with me for so long?” Katherine exclaimed, 
delightedly. “Oh, how good of you! But Charlie — what will he 
say, and the children?” 

“They must do without me for a while; though really, my dear, 
between those wretched servants and Charlie’s laboratory, I have 
small hope of seeing them alive again ; in fact, my life is a burden 
to me.” And Harriet smiled as brightly as though laboratories and 
burdens were the two pleasantest things in all the world. “What- 
ever you do, Katherine, never let that darling baby — bless him! — so 
much as look at anything that explodes, or he will get a taste for it 
and worry you into your grave.” 

Katherine laughed — a low, glad little laugh, very good to hear. 
“It is so sweet to have you near me,” she said, caressing Harry’s 
soft, round, pretty cheek with her fragile fingers. 

“Unless you want to worrit her ladyship into a raging fever 
mum, you will stop talkin’,” broke in a threatening voice at the 
door. 

Both ladies started, Harriet rather consciously, 


3WEET IS TRUE LOVE. 53 

“I don’t fancy it is doing me any harm, nurse,” Katherine de- 
clared, very meekly; “indeed, I feel considerably stronger.” 

“Oh, I dessay,^’ said the veteran, with a withering glance at Mrs. 
Charteris — “with your eyes quite wild and your cheeks all flushed, 
pore dear! Well, Heaven knows where ’twill end: but I wouldn’t 
care for the extinction of havin’ slain a human creetur.” With 
which parting shot at the intruder she stalked from the room. 

Mrs. Charteris talked no more that night. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Nearly the whole of the stipulated month passed away pleasantly 
and swiftly enough, enlivened by daily skirmishes with Mrs. Rus- 
kin — the belligerent — in which Harriet always came off victorious, 
to the former’s intense disgust, until at length she was finally de- 
feated, and Lady Warrenne was looking quite strong and handsome 
again, while the baby had grown positively beautiful — in fact, the 
most beautiful baby in all the world — and knew its mamma per- 
fectly. At least, so its mamma said, and of course nobody — not 
even Mrs. Ruskin, that most formidable personage — was rude 
enough to contradict her. 

That Lady Warrenne was happy in her new-found treasure there 
could be little doubt. With the little one in her arms, she was a 
picture of mingled pride and intense gratification ; yet there were 
times, nevertheless, when her eyes resumed their old, restless, un- 
satisfied expression, and when she would sit before the blazing fire 
dreaming for an hour together of far-off scenes, to the total forget- 
fulness of all surrounding objects. 

These signs and tokens of a “mind diseased” were all carefully 
noted and marked down in her busy brain by Mrs. Charteris, and, 
oddly enough, were secretly exulted over by that unfeeling young 
woman in the privacy of her own apartment, besides being fre- 
quently the subject of numerous letters despatched to Charteris 
Park. 

So things went on until Harry’s leave had almost expired, and she 
and Lady Warrenne were sitting one morning in the nursery, the 
baby slumbering peacefully in its little cot close by. Katherine had 
fallen into one of her absent moods, and sat gazing with wistful 
eyes into the leaping fire, when she was startled by the touch of 
Harry’s hand laid gently upon her knee. 


54 


Str^JSr IS TRUE LOVE. 


“Katherine,” said Mrs. Charteris, '‘why do not you say at once 
what it is you want, ray dear?” 

“Want!” Lady Warrenne repeated, a conscious flush over-spread- 
ing her fair face. “Why, you are dreaming, Harriet! What can I 
possibly have to wish for? I want nothing.” And she glanced 
with nervous fondness towards the cradle. 

“Yes, you do, ’’returned Harry, bravely; “you want Mark, you want 
the best fellow that ever breathed: you want the father of your boy.” 

“Oh, no,^ no!” cried her poor little ladyship, excitedly, bursting 
into tears, and throwing her arms around Harriet's neck. 

“But, oh, yes, yes!” that determined diplomatist went on, vali- 
antly, resolved at all hazards to gain her point now that she had at 
last found opportunity for broaching the forbidden topic. “Why, 
Katherine, consider, my dear; what are you thinking of? The little 
one is a month old to-day, and his own father has never even been 
told of his existence. Now, is that right? — is it kind. Putting every 
other consideration aside, how can you be so selfish as to keep tluit 
beautiful boy all to yourself, when you know Mark would be so 
proud of him, his dear little son?” 

“I do not know anything of the kind,” Katherine answered, dry- 
ing her eyes, and making a laudable effort to appeaV dignified. “ Y ou 
do not understand, Harry. He has never written so much as a line 
to me since he left, so many months ago, — and~and I dare say he 
has forgotten all about such a disagreeable, perverse creature as 1 
am, long, long before this.” 

“How can you talk such abominable nonsense,” Mrs. Charteris 
broke in, almost angrily, “when you know very well that he loves 
you this moment just as devotedly — I had nearly said foolishly as 
ever he did? You could hardly expect him to write love-letters to 
a woman who let him see — as you did — how little she cared for him. 
Come, be sensible, Katherine, and say at once that you are positive- 
ly anxous to meet him again and make it all up, as I am sure you 
must be dying to do, unless you are totally unworthy of the best 
husband that ever breathed, — my own Charlie alone excepted. I 
wonder you are not longing to show him that perfect child.” 

“I do not believe he would care to see him one bit,” Lady War- 
renne declared, obstinately, going over to the baby’s cradle and kneel- 
ing down beside it. “In spite of all you say, Harriet, you know in 
your heart he ought to have written. Not that T care, — do not think 
it, — only — only” — apostrophizing the sleeping cherub — “you and 1 


SIVEET IS TRUE LOVE. 55 

can never care to see those that do not care to see us : can we, my 
angel?” 

But Harriet did care, no matter how indifferent Katherine might 
profess to be : so, after a few minutes had passed in thoughtful si- 
lence, she made some plausible excuse, and quitting the room, ran 
quickly down the stairs, where, in the most surreptitious and under- 
hand manner imaginable, she found out Sir Mark Warrenne’s ad- 
dress from the housekeeper, and forthwith indited him a somewhat 
lengthy epistle, in which she laid before him the exact state of 
affairs and wound up by demanding his presence at Tyne Boyal 
without loss of time. 

This letter she sealed and deposited in the post-bag, after which 
she went up-stars again to Katherine’s room, and, without a single 
sign of conscious guilt upon her countenance, entered into conversa- 
tion with that unsuspicious woman. 

The whole of the next day she watched and waited for some re- 
cognition of her intelligence, until about four o’clock, when she re- 
ceived an ominous-looking red-colored envelope, which contained a 
telegraphic despatch from Sir Mark, to the effect that he would 
reach Tyne Royal about five or six o’clock on the following evening. 

This telegram Mrs. Charteris dropped into her pocket, and said 
nothing about it until the next morning at breakfast, when — 

* ‘Katherine,” said she, slowly, “something tells me that Mark will 
be here to day.” 

“Oh, Harriet!” poor Lady Warrenne exclaimed, setting down her 
teacup, and turning so pale that Mrs. Charteris was fairly frightened. 

“Now, Katherine, do not be silly, ’’she said, hurriedly rising and 
pouring some eau-de-Cologne upon a handkerchief, which she ap- 
pli(5d to Katherine’s forehead. “There is nothing so very appalling 
in what I have said, I am sure, to make you look so white and 
scared. He is only your husband, after all, you know; though real- 
ly one would imagine from your manner that he was a modern Blue- 
beard at the very least, — or a wolf in sheep’s clothing, — or anything 
else equally unpleasant. Look. here: if you faint, my dear, you 
will be sorry for it, as I protest I will elope w.ithyour son and heir 
before you have time to recover, and carry him off to Nova Scotia.” 

“You wrote to him?” Lady Warrenne asked, trembling in every 
limb, and taking no heed of Harriet’s good-natured chatter. 

“Yes, I wrote to him,” that lady admitted, heroically, going down 
on her knees beside Katherine’s chair, and beginning to feel slightly 


SWEET IS TR UE L 0 VE. 


56 

repentant, not to say conscience-stricken, — though triumphant, 
nevertheless, — as she watched the other’s face. “As you would not, 
you know, I did; and a very good thing too. Now, Katherine, you 
will cheer up, will you not, and try to look your prettiest and sweet- 
est, and put on the most enchanting dress in your wardrobe, so that 
when this inhuman Bluebeard does arrive he may be turned from 
his murderous designs by the extreme beauty of his wife and child?” 

With such-like idle talk did Mrs. Charteris strive to beguile away 
all the interminable hours of that most interminable day, giving 
Katherine small time to think. of anything beyond the passing mo- 
ment, by hovering over her with little gay words and nonsensical 
speeches, that somehow did succeed in dissipating the minutes with 
wonderful rapidity, — minutes that would have been insupportable if 
endured in solitude or silence. 

As the evening drew on and the daylight faded, lamps were brought 
to the sitting-room where Lady Warrenne sat, dressed with more 
than her ordinary care, and looking calmly lovely, though she could 
have counted each beat of her throbbing heart. Opposite to her sat 
Harriet, endeavoring, with all her might, to keep up the desultory 
conversation that, in spite of all her exertions, bade fair to come to 
an untimely end. 

Half-past five, chimed out the diminutive clock on the chimney- 
piece, with a vivacity that considerably startled both the listeners, 
but scarcely had the last silvery stroke died away when Mrs. Char- 
teris’s heart rose precipitately to her mouth, as distinctly on the dis- 
tant gravel she discerned the sound of carriage-wheels. She rose at 
once, but with the most commendable self-possession. 

“I will he back in one moment, Katherine,” she said, carelessly, 
with her usual pleasant smile, and went out of the room calmly 
enough, closing the door behind her. 

But, having once performed this task, she ran swiftly and breath- 
lessly down the broad staircase, and through the long silent hall, to 
the door, which she opened herself for Sir Mark Warrenne. 

“Katherine?” was all the young man could say, nervously catch- 
ing both her hands. 

“It is all right; I have told her: she is expecting you,” Mrs. Char- 
teris gasped, disconnectedly, almost sobbing with excitement and 
delight. “She is in the blue room. Go to her.” 

“How shall I ever thank you?” Warrenne answered, kissing her 
warmly in the intense gratitude of his heart, — an unexpected pro- 


SWEET IS TRUE LOVE. 


57 

ceeding that first astonished and then amused Mrs. Charteris beyond 
measure ; but, before she had time to offer any comment, the baro- 
net had run up-stairs, without encountering any one, and opened the 
door of the apartment where his wife was waiting to receive him. 

Katherine had risen, and when he entered was holding on firmly to 
the back of a chair, looking beautiful, but with a face as white as 
death. She gave a little, low, subdued cry when she saw him, and 
held out her arms. Sir Mark caught her. 

“My darling! — my darling!” he murmured, brokenly. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“And when did you first discover that I was a little bit necessary 
to your happiness?” Sir Mark asked his wife, fondly, half an hour 
later, — a certain thirty minutes that to them, in their new-found 
happiness, had appeared as something less than five. 

“1 think, from the very first moment that I lost you,” she answer- 
ed, with a sweet, soft laugh, glancing up at him shyly, with well- 
contented glistening eyes. “But this I know, — that from the time 
our baby came, till now, I have wanted you more than words can 
tell, if only to let you see what a perfect treasure he is.” 

“And yet you would not write and tell me to come, you proud 
little girl!” Sir Mark said, gazing down with ineffable tenderness 
upon the almost childish figure at his side. “I must administer a 
lecture to you some of these days, to prevent your getting ‘a fall.’ 
But you will take me now to see this ‘perfect treasure,’ will you not?” 

“Come,” she said, slipping her small fingers into his with a de- 
lightful sense of security, and leading the way through one or two 
intermediate chambers to the nursery, where baby lay in high state, 
slumbering peacefully all alone, Mrs. Ruskin having most oppor- 
tunely gone down to the housekeeper’s pantry a moment before, to 
procure some necessaries for her own comfort. Lady Warren ne 
stooped, and, raising the baby from his tiny rose-lined cot, placed 
him in his father’s arms. 

“Is he not beautiful?’’ she whispered, intense pride and affection 
quivering in her voice. 

“He is!” said Sir Mark, as in duty bound, imprinting a kiss upon 
the boy’s fair cheek. 

After this the mother took him back again, and replaced him in 
his cosy bed, without disturbing his sleep. 


SWEET m TRUE LOVE. 


58 

“I was ro glad it was a boy,” Lady Warrenne said, turning again 
towards her husband, and speaking in the same hushed manner — 
“so glad — because — I fancied you would prefer it.” 

“Yes; I am glad it is a son. He is not christened yet, I suppose?” 

“No; he is very young, and I had not decided on a name; but 
now, if you would like it, Mark, I think we might call him ‘Felix,* 
because he has brought happiness to us at last.” 

It was possibly nothing but a very ridiculous girlish idea — an idea 
expresed with much confusion and hesitation — but it seeQied very 
sweet to Sir Mark just then. 

“He has, my darling,” he answered, drawing her nearer to him — 
“happiness that, please Heaven, shall never again be disturbed. But 
I think, Katherine, there is one other name we might put before 
even that. Shall we” — here he hesitated for a moment or two, and 
then proceeded hurriedly — “call him ‘Blackwood Felix?’ ” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then Lady Warrenne, bursting 
into tears, threw her arms round her husband’s neck. 

“Oh, Mark, Mark,” she sobbed, “yoii were always too good for me, 
my dear !” 

After this little repentant admission there ensued a somewhat 
lengthened silence, long enough, at all events, to allow Katherine 
Warrenne’s heart to pass forever into her husband’s keeping. 

“Now you must go away, and get yourself ready for dinner,” she 
said, presently, when she had dried her tears and called back once 
more the willing radiant smiles. “Harriet ordered it early on pur- 
pose for you; so you have little time.” 

“Very well. I shall not be a moment,” Sir Mark answered, open- 
ing a door that led into the gallery. “But will you and Harriet be 
civil tome ki this dress?” — glancing at the morning clothes he wj)re. 

‘•Yes, we will, of course: I promise,” Katherine said, adding, with 
a bewitching little smile and blush, “You look very nice — to me. 
Now go up to my room, the first you will come to, and make haste.” 

“But do not on any account meddle with the rouge or the pearl- 
powder,” Mrs. Charteris put in, gayly. She was running up the 
stairs at the moment, and had overheard the last remark. 

“Oh, no fear; I leave all that to you two!” Warrenne answered, 
promptly, with a short laugh, as he ran up the steps with almost 
boyish elasticity, such a wealth of joy surging up within his heart 
as he had never dared to hope for in this life. 

“Harriet,” cried Lady Warrenne, when she had drawn her friend 


StVEETI^ TRUE LOVE, 


S9 

into the blue sitting-room and closed the door, *‘what shall I say to 
you ? How can I thank you, when I feel that but for your goodnes 
we might have gone on to our lives’ end without a reconciliation ? 
Dearest, my only regret is that it will be impossible for me to love 
you better than I do at present.” 

“I do not want thanks,” Mrs. Charteris broke in, merrily, feeling 
thoroughly in her element: “your face is enough for me. Any 
artist would sketch you this moment joyfully as a model for Con- 
tentment. Well,” maliciously, “do you acknowledge now that you 
wanted him?” 

“Yes. 1 will even acknowledge that I am far happier than I de- 
serve to be,” Katherine answered, very well satisfied to confess her- 
self defeated. “And he is looking very well, too, Harry, is he not?” 

“Just a little thin, perhaps,” Mrs. Charteris suggested. “Well, 
yes, now that I think of it, he is looking a degree thinner than he 
used to be, — but very handsome it seems to m'e.” 

Katherine finished so naively that Harriet burst into a merry ring- 
ing laugh, in which, after few ineffectual struggles to maintain 
her composure. Lady Warrenne joined heartily. Their mirth had 
by no means subsided when Sir Mark again entered, appearing con- 
siderably benefited by his hasty toilet. 

“What are you both laughing about?” he asked, unable himself to 
repress a smile at their evident enjoyment. 

“About you,” replied Mrs. Charteris, mischievously. “Your wife 
has just discovered for the first time how extremely handsome you 
are;” whereupon Katherine blushed crimson, and would have at- 
tempted some denial, had not a servant at this juncture announced 
. the important fact that dinner was served. 

THE END. 


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‘‘That Last Rehearsal.” 


LVr THE ^^DUCHESS.’* 


He is standing with his back to the fire, his eyes bent upon the 
ground, lost in thought. So, evidently, are all the little dogs deep 
in contemplation as they lie all round him, with their chilly noses 
turned toward the cosy fire, that laughs and crackles and leaps in 
mad enjoyment, although May is far advanced. At his feet the three 
rough terriers — Rum, Charlie, and Gip — snore luxuriously; on his 
riglit the setter pup blinks softly ; on his left the fox-terrier, handsome 
Cheekie, dozes ; while in the centre lies Crinkle, the small toy, wide 
awake and evidently eager to challenge the world to single combat. 
This latter, when dispassionately considered, is but a melancholy 
creature,— all legs, and no body to signify beyond an aspiring tail and 
two dejected ears. A forlorn thing, fit only for the tomb, but belov- 
ed of its master; so it lives, and its legs grow, and it prospers. 

The clock ticks, the moments fly, the gilt hands point to half- 
past three. Just now a soft, distinct chime proclaims the hour, and 
Mr. Dynecourt, rousing himself, wonders vaguely what on earth he 
sliall do. This thought is so perplexing that involuntarily he tight- 
ens his clasp upon the letter he holds in his left hand, and brings 
his foot down with some emphasis upon the hearth-rug. Probably he 
meant no offence, but all the little dogs resent the hurried movement, 
and, as though pulled by a universal string, rise and gaze reproach- 
fully upon him. Their master takes no notice of their indignation, 
but with moody eyes seeks, as it were, to look into futurity. 

At this moment the door opens, and a pretty creature dressed in 
deep mourning enters the room. Descriptions, like comparisons, 
are odious; therefore I shall not describe my heroine, but will ask 
you to picture her to yourself as the very sweetest thing in all the 
world. Surely beauty lies not in form or feature, but in expression ; 
and she is tender, vivacious, provoking, gracious,— all just as it suits 
her. 


2 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


Dynecourt is twenty-six, and very much in love. Georgie Hamil- 
loii is seventeen, and very much in love too. But he is in love with 
her, and she is only in love with life and the freshness and fairness 
of this pleasant world. 

As she enters now and advances up the long room, she smiles 
brightly. “I have news for you,” she says, with large, pleased, eager 
eyes. ‘'Do you know, Polly has five of the loveliest pups imaginable 
— regular darlings! All a deep brown, and without a single spot.’’ 

“Has. she?” — absently. 

“‘Has she?’ How very enthusiastic! What’s the matter, Davy? 
Something is wrong, I know, and I’m sure it is in that letter. How 
I do hate letters!” 

“Yes, it is in the letter,” returns he, uncomfortable and some- 
what forlornly. “It is from your uncle, John Greaves, asking you 
— to go and live with them.” 

“I sha’n’t go,” says Miss Georgie, promptly. “Not likely. May 
I ask what put such a festive notion in his head? Am I not very 
well as I am ?” 

“That’s just it,” — crumpling the unlucky letter nervously while 
staring with fixed determination at Rum’s silvery head. “Your un- 
cle doesn’t think so. In fact, he thinks you shouldn’t — live here 
any longer.” 

“Not live here? in my home? And why?” 

Mr. Dynecourt is beginning to feel dictinctly ashamed of himself, 
and is inwardly hurling bad words at Uncle John for having com- 
pel It'd him to his present task. 

“ You see, two months ago it was different,” he begins, desperate- 
ly. “Poor Aunt Hilyard was alive, and of course it was with her 

you lived, and all that; and But now Mrs. Stokes has left us 

your uncle is afraid people may talk if — if ” 

“Why can’t you speak?” interrupts she, impatiently. “I dislike 
people who hesitate, even more than people who ‘talk,’ as you term 
it. . Mon’ t say another word: I understand perfectly. Oh,” — 

sinking into a chair, — “what a nuisance it all is! and what on earth 
is to become of me?” 

He is silent. He draws himself up with a quick movement, and 
opens his lips as though to speak but checks himself resolutely, and 
as a further preventive to speech brings his teeth down sharply upon 
the Old of his blond moustache. 

“I certainly sha’ii’t go to Aunt Maud’s,” goes on Georgie, with de- 


3 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 

cision; ^^nothing shall induce me. 1 once spent a month there, and 
I'm not going to try it again. I don’t fancy- having Julia's per- 
fections retailed to me half a dozen times a day, and 1 .won’t ne 
treated as a baby when I am seventeen. 1 can’t bear Aunt iMaud. 
Do let- me stay here, Davy ; what does it matter wliat any om may 
sayV’ 

“You could only stay on here in one character, ” replies he, cpiietly, 
though he pales a little and regards her searchingly. 

“And that is ” 

“As my wife.” 

“Well, tlien, I will he your wife,” decides Miss Hamilton, with 
flattering haste, thougli perhaps there is something not altogether 
satisfactory in tiie air of self-Scicrifice that accompanies the little 
speech. Then she stops short, and laughs rather awkwardly. “I 
foi-got,” she says, looking down and trifling with her white fingers. 
“Pardon me: I forgot you, might not view the idea in quite such a 
cheerful light as I do.” 

“You must be blind,” he says, coming forward and speaking 
quickly, “if you can have any doubt on that subject. I love you, 
Georgie; surely you know that. But I know you do not love me in 
— in that way: and I would not hurry or tempt you into a marriage 
that later on you might bitterly repent.” 

“T shouldn’t,” — calmly; “1 am sure of it. Why do you always 
imagine unpleasant things?” 

“Tf T could be quite sure you knew your own mind, — that you 
really wished to marry me,” says he anxiously, some degree of hope 
rising in his mind as he listens to the seeming earnestness of her words. 

“You may be quite sure,” returns she, reassuringly. “I would do 
to escape Aunt Maud.” 

He drops her hand abruptly and walks back to his old position on 
the hearth-rug. “No; it is out of the question,” he says. “You 
do not care for me, and T would not do you such an injury as to marry 
you under the circumstances.” 

“Then don't'' she says, petulantly, and, turning to the window, 
lets her eyes wander tenderly, lingeringly, over the lovely parks and 
uplands that seem to swell and glow beneath her gaze. For six 
happy years she has called them home: day by day they have grown 
de/irer: surely they are more to her than they can ever be to him, 
who has spent all his life abroad, and has only enjoyed their sweets 


4 


THAT LAST /REHEARSAL, 


for the past eight months. Yet now he will remain here undisturb- 
ed, in full possession, while she 

At this point she lets one hand smite the palm of the other sharply, 
ami, tinning with a little passionate gesture from the window, faces 
him. “What am 1 to do?” she says. “At least help to think, as by 
your decree 1 mi^sYleave my — -home.” 

1 ler eyes fill ; her lips tremble slightly ; her hands fall together with 
au involuntary movement and clasp each other closely. “1 will not 
go to my aunt’s,” she says, quickly. “1 have money: why should 1 
not take a cottage — the Elms, for instance — and live by myself, or 
with some nice old lady? — though, as a rule, 1 hate old ladies.” 

“That is a good thought,” says Dyiiecourt, eagerly, some light 
coming back again into his eyes. (If this can be accomplished, she 

will at least be always near him; that is, untii Here the glad 

light fades again suddenly and Melancholy once more marks him for 
her own.) “It can be managed, I dare say, if yoUr uncle gives con- 
sent. T know an old lady, a friend of my aunt’s, who would, I am 
sure, be glad to come to you. Yes, it might be arranged, and — the 
Elms would exactly suit you.” 

“As well as any other place,” — with a slirug of her pretty shoulders. 
“You have refused to marry me, and you have turned me out of 
<loors: therefore I must needs be content with the lesser goods the 
gods provide.” 

“Georgie,” exclaims he angrily, keen reproach and pain in his 
tone, “how dare you speak to me like that? Tlow have I deserved 
it at your hands? Tt is unlike you to be unjust.” He is gazing 
<lnwn with tender severity upon her wilful provoking face; and at 
last, when she can endure the intensity of his regard no longer, she 
raises her head, and, meeting his eyes, let her mouth relax into a soft, 
irrc'sistible smile. But he is too hurt and sad at heart to return the 
smile, and presently she becomes aware that his eves are full of tears. 

“I have vexed you,” she says, remorsefully, slipping her slender 
fingers into his: “forgive me. Tam bad to you always. But one 
cannot be amiable forever, and just now 1 am angry with Mrs. 
Grundy because she will not let me be happy in my own way: and I 
think I am a little angry with you too. It isn’t the pleasantest thing 
in the world to propose to some one and be ignominiously rejected. 
Now, is it?” 

“My darling, how can 1 act diff<Tentlv? You are only a child; 
you do ttot kuo^vy your own miwd yet. A time might come when 


77/A T LAS 7' J^E/IEAI^SAL. 5 

it would be madness towards both of us to marry you without 
being fully assured of your love.” 

•‘Would it? And yet I know I like you better than anybody T ever 
met, ” persists she, a little wistfully. 

“That is saying nothing, you know so few. But listen, Georgie. 
Let a year go by; at the end of twelve months, if you still wish to 
marry me, I shall say to myself, ‘She loves me!^ If not — why, 
then” — sadly — “I shall know how wise I was to-day. In the mean 
time, promise me one thing,” says Dynecourt, earnestly, closing his 
hand tighter upon hers — “that whenever you feel yourself growing 
interested — in any one, you will tell me of it instantly,'^ 

•*1 promise” — with faint surprise in .look and tone. 

“You will not hide it until it is too late?” 

“Certainly not. Of course” — with a little mocking smile that ir- 
radiates her whole face — “you are alluding to George Blount, or, 
perhaps, to Captain Stannus, who, I hear, is expected at the Grange 
next month.” 

“I may be,” replies he, quietly, though some slight discomposure 
betrays itself in his manner as she mentions the last name. “I have 
your promise, however — have I not? — that you will give me timely 
warning of the very first sign of tenderness you feel.” 

“I promise faithfully,” returns she, laughingly, ‘.‘though I know 
you are imagining what will never com'h to pass.” 

A fortnight has come and gone. Uncle John has given in; so has 
Aunt Maud with startling amiability. It is a settled thing that for 
the future. Miss Hamilton is to be mistress of her own actions aiid 
the Elms (a picturesque cottage, without an elm within a mile of 
it), while the Park loses its sweetest inmate, and Dynecourt grows 
to almost detest the beautiful place that now, in Georgie’s absence, 
seems bereft of its chief charm. 

Gradually the long drawing-rooms assume the unlovely look of 
all rooms in which no humanity lingers; the dining-room grows 
gaunt, the galleries ghostly. Only the library retains in part its old 
appearance, as here its master sits at night, brooding sadly over her 
he loves. 

Yet, of all rooms in the house, this, perhaps, is the one most 
haunted by her presence. In each huge arm-chair he sees a slender 
lithesome figure lounging; from behind each hanging curtain a 
charming face peeps gay ly; over every table a sleek head is bend- 


6 THA T LAST REHEARSAL. 

ing, reading or drawing, or working as the silent apparition 
chooses. 

At last the terrible loneliness becomes unbearable — so much so 
that it drives Mr. Dynecourt down to the cottage at all sorts of un- 
reasonable hours, where he is received with such cordiality by Geo.r- 
gie as makes good Mrs. Wright — the old lady who has come to take 
cliarge of her — wonder nervously whether such incessant inter- 
course is strictly proper. In liar young days it had not been so, 
etc., etc. 

As for Greorgie, she pines persistently for her lovely Park, and 
regrets every hour she lives her enforced exile from it. Once, 
about three weeks after her change of residence, loitering among 
the flowers alone with Davy (having eluded Mrs. Wright’s vigi- 
lance), she turns to him and says suddenly, with some childish bit- 
terness and envy, “Well, and are you happy, now you have the 
Park all to yourself?” 

“Does that speech deserve an answer?’’ — reproachfully. “Take 
it, however. I am as miserable as I well can be. Every room 
and hall and corridor reminds me ceaselessly of — what I sorely 
miss each hour of the day.” 

“I am glad of it” — wickedly. “The more wretched you are, 
the more I shall enjoy it. I can never forgive you for having 
refused me. Such an indignity! Even still my heart beats when 
I think of it.” 

“You jest about what is cruel earnest to me.” 

“What a tone!” — laughing. “You remind me of the frogs and 
those unpleasant boys. And yet surely I have stated only bare 
facts: you did refuse me.” 

“Ask me again when you can tell me honestly you love me.” 

“What if I told you so now?” “I shouldn’t believe you.” 

“No? Then what is love?” demands she, standing still before 
him in the centre of the path, framed in by glowing, fragrant roses, 
and gazing with calm inquiry, though somewhat mirthfully, into his 
grave eyes. “I mean, how does one feel when one is in love?” 

“You confess your ignorance?” asks he, with a slight smile that is 
full of dejection and regret. “Well, let me try to enlighten it. 
First, when one loves, one has a passionate longing to be near the 
beloved, — a sense of desolation when apart from her.” 

says Georgie, raising her brows slightly. “Now, don’t you 
tiling— please ,{Xo not believe me unsympathetic — but doesn’t it occur 


T//A T LAST REHEATS A 1. 


7 


to you that — that — it might grow slightly moaotonous?*’ 

“No, it does — emphatically. “To you, of course, it might.” 

“Ah!” murmurs Georgie, gazing with expressive regret at her de- 
licate, filbert-shaped nails. 

“In the second place,” goes on Mr. Dynecourt, “one is always 
absurdly jealous.” 

“Is one? But, my (Zear Davy, how very dreadful! Do you not 
think jealousy a rather vulgar sentiment?” 

“It may be, but it is at the same time a thoroughly natural and 
utterly unconquerable sentiment.” 

“I’m absolutely certain/ couldn’t be made jealous,” says Georgie, 
witli uplifted chin. “I flatter myself I am above all that. It is low 
and commonplace.” 

“Perhaps you look upon love itself in the same light,” says he, a 
little bitterly. “Remember, it too is commonplace.” 

“No, no. I am not so sure of that,” returns she, reflectively. 
“Well, go on. Besides monotony and jealousy is there anything else?” 

‘ ‘As I regard it, yes. I think, ” says this old-fashioned young man, 
in a low tone that he firmly believes befits the occasion, — “I think 
one would feel if one’s dearest died that one must die too.” 

“Well, now,” says Georgie, in a clear, healthy, business-like tone, 
“I don’t believe a word of that. It is ridiculous: it is too much.” 

“Didn’t I say so? I told you beforehand you knew nothing about 
it,” says he, hastily, a little indignation, a little disgust, and a good 
deal of pain mixed together in his voice. “I do not expect you to 
agree with me, because you have never loved.” 

“I dare say you think you know best, says Miss Georgie, with some 
just irritation, “but I ask you to look round at those among our 
friends who have loved, and see if you speak sensibly. There was 
Maud Eldon, for instance: when news came that Frank had been shot 
in that stupid Ashantee affair, did she droop and die? And yet 
they were quite devoted: we all knew that. And then there was 
Jane Newcome: did she find an early grave because poor George 
succumbed to that fever? She didn’t. I never saw any one grow so 
fat and so — so pleasant as she has done of late. Then remember 
Mrs. Hartley’s case : you know how awfully fond of each other she 
and Arthur were, and yet when he was brought home on a 
door to her from the hunting-field, did she die? No; she only got 
married again. I must repeat it, Davy : I don’t believe a word of it.” 

“Of course it isn’t in one’s power to die,” says Davy, apologetically, 


8 


THAT LAS7' REIIEARSAH 


feeling somewhat crushed by this weight of evidence, ^‘but at least 
one would feel anxious to die. It would seem the hardest part of 
one’s misery that perhaps one couldn’t. Now, I ask you, Georgie,’’ 
— in a challenging tone, — ^‘do you think you would feel anxious to 
die if 1 died?” 

‘•How can I say?” — perplexed, letting her rounded cheek sink into 
her palm. “It is so hard, to be sure.” Then, suddenly. “How can 
I think about it at all, when you are alive and well, and so very near 
to me?” she says, sweetly, moving a degree closer to him and turn- 
ing upon him the softest, tenderest smile imaginable. 

But this smile, that might reasonably be believed capable of melt- 
ing an iceberg, fails in its purpose. Mr. Dynecourt distinctly de- 
clines to be melted, and, fearing to meet her eyes, looks resolutely 
over her head toward the distant hills beyond, behind which the gold- 
en sun is sinking slowly, slowly, emitting in his dying agonies a yel- 
low haze that covers all the land. 

“Pshaw!” he says, impatiently, ‘‘why do you bring me into the 
question? I was speaking generally. And — you do not know what 
love means. How should you? You are but a child.” 

At this allusion to her age Miss Hamilton is very properly offend- 
ed. Wrath grows within her violet eyes, making them larger, dark- 
er, more intensely expressive (if possible), than they were before. 

^^Ghildr she says. “Oh, yes, without doubt I am only a child; 
and I am very glad of it too, as it is a good thing to be young. But 
I suppose one can’t be a child always, and perhaps you have forgot- 
ten that I am seventeen. And as to love, you say I know nothing 
al)out it; and I hope I never shall, because, if your description of it 
be a correct one, it must be the most uncomfortable, absurd, and de- 
testable thing in the world.” 

This vehement speech, I need scarcely say, ends the conversation. 
Mr. Dynecourt disdains to reply, and turns his attention with re- 
newed interest upon the distant landscape. 

Presently, however, his meditations are brought to an ignominious 
close. Georgie, springing to her feet, apparently forgetful of recent 
wrath seizes him eagerly by the arm, and by an animated glance brings 
him to his feet. “Let us run,” she says, with the utmost good-nature, 
as though their late passage-at-arms had never occurred. “I see ]Mrs. 
Wright looming in the dim vista of the future, and her coming means 
platitudes, mild expostulations, and shawls. Let us escape while we 
may.” 


Til A T LAST REHEARSAL. 


9 


With this she turns the corner hastily,, and, he following, as in 
duty bound; they presently find themselves inanobsci.re arbor, moul- 
dy and earwiggy, but secure. 

Georgie, seating himself at the rustic table, lets her chin fall into 
her hand and silently contemplates her companion, who is looking 
Jiis severest and is crushing without remorse the “starry jessamine’ 
that climbs the arbor’s sides as he leans against it. 

“How quiet you are!” she says, at length, with a slightly provok- 
ing smile, being in a teasing humor. “Is it your temper or your tooth- 
ache? Speak to me, Davy.” 

“I am afraid you don’t like Mrs. Wright,” he says, “and it must 
be unpleasant for you, living with her, and that ” 

“Not in the least: I like her very much, but I don’t love her, that 
is all. She is tiresome, poor soul! and will think 1 have a delicate 
chest.” 

“She is a very good woman.” 

“That is just it,” — demurely 

“What is?” 

“Her being so good. She is too good: that is her great fault. She 
is the most perfect woman I ever met, and I don’t like perfect people: 
they disagree with me. Oh that one could find a flaw somewhere! 
But one looks for it in vain. There are no exceptions to her rules, 
and she is never wrong. Good people are very disagreeable: I pre- 
fer the other sort myself.” * 

“You make me wish myself of the other sort,” says he, smiling. 

“Don’t wish yourself different: you are the happy medium. But 
Captain Stannus, he is quite of the other sort.” 

“You have met him?” — turning with a palpable start to examine 
her features. “When? where?” 

“Last night, at the Grange: you know he was expected there,” — 
coloring distinctily, though faintly. “T dined there: did I not tell 
you? I dine there so often it scarcely impresses me. Mrs. Blount 
came herself at six o’clock, and made me walk back with her, as she 
said she was most anxious 1 should meet her brother.” 

“5^’o doubt.” 

“He is very handsome, and was very agreeable and — attentive and 
pleasant.” 

“Was he?” 

“Vts.” 

gn, Georgie j vqi| ()4Vf something more to tell me/’ Re hMS 


10 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


turned his face from hers^ and is unconsciously reducing to ruin a 
branch of the jessamine that has foolishly wandered within his grasp. 

“Xot much. Only once, you know, you made me promise if lev- 
er felt interested (was not that the word?) in any one 1 was to let you 
know directly. You remember?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

w Weil,”— with a slightly-embarrassed laugh, and a blush that deep- 
ens every moment by fine degrees upon her pretty cheeks, “1 think 
I rather like this new friend. We had dancing in the large hall af- 
ter dinner, and he danced with me all the evening, and said a good 
many charming things. And he didn t tell me 1 was a silly child. 
Ami altogether we had a lovely time.” 

She stops with another little laugh at her Americanism, but 
Dynecourt makes no reply. She cannot see his expression, and, as 
his silence troubles her, she rises, and, coming to his side, slips her 
hand through his arm. “Have I vexed you?” she says; “do you 
really care? Of late I have thought — not. You scold me so much, 
and look so sadly at me sometimes. Perhaps, after all” — with a 
little sigh— “I am only a silly child. Mind, I am not sure that I 
feel even the faintest interest in this new-comer; only it certainly 
did occur to me that he was good to talk to, and I liked his' way of 
dancing. And you know you made me promise faithfully to tell 
you of the very first sign of ” 

“I know,” interrupts he, impatiently, in a compressed tone, tak- 
ing no notice of the white little hand that is so gently pressing his 
anil. , 

“To-morrow night,” she goes on, earnestly, “I shall be dining 
there again, and— ” 

“Again?” 

“Yes. Are you not to be there? George said he would ride 
down this afternoon to ask you; I suppose you missed him.” 

“It doesn’t matter; I sha’n’t go.” 

“Xot when I am going to be of the party!” — reproachfully. 

“No” — brutally. 

“Well, you must please yourself about that, of course” — with a 
flattering sigh. “But I was going to say to you that when to-mor- 
row night is past I shall know more positively whether I really 
like Capt'iiu Stannus or not; Come here on Friday and I will tell 
you all about it.” 

Hynecourt smiles in spite of himself. “And yet you were indig- 


It 


rilA T LAST REHEARSAL. 

naiit a moment since because 1 said you were a cliild!” he says, lialf 
musingly. “I keep you to your bargain. On Friday I shall be here 
to learn my fate.” 

lie leaves her presently and goes home full of sad forebodings, as 
miserable as any woman could desire. All the evening (that seems 
so interminable) he fights with his fears, and refuses to find comfort 
in his choicest cigars. Dinner is an abomination, bed a mockery. 

Every hour of the succeeding day he torments himself afresh, 
and as twilight falls, almost makes up his mind to waive ceremony^ 
and, in spite of the refusal sent, dine at the Orange, if only to 
judge with his own jealous eyes what amount of favor Stannus is 
finding in the eyes of his beloved. But pride and obstinacy pre- 
vail. No, he will not interfere in any way: let her give her lieart 
to this stranger if she will; let this fancy, born of a few hours, 
grow and supplant the affection that has lasted for years. And so 
on and on. 

As Friday morning deepens into noon, his mood becomes even 
more depressing. Why fight against fortune? Why seek to com- 
pel fate? Why go to the Elms at all, to hear what he already knows 
too Well? Better take the next train to town, or shut himself up in 
his private^ den, or die first. 

Five minutes after making a solemn choice between these three 
evils he finds himself in the hall, gazing with gentle meditation in- 
to his hat. Whether he has mistaken time and place, and is about 
to say a prayer into it, will never be known, but’ presently he draws 
himself up, and, as though hardly conscious of the act, places the 
hat firmly on his head. After which, still with the abstracted look 
upon his face, he opens the hall door and takes the road that leads 
to the.Elms. 

Whilst yet at a distance from that paradise, he sees standing at 
its gate a very gracious figure, evidently on the lookout for some- 
body. Coming nearer he can see it is Miss Georgie herself, clad in 
a marvellous costume and innumerable smiles. 

‘‘It is all right,” she cries, gayly, at the top of her fresh young 
voice, running to greet him. Then, as they meet, she leaves her 
hand in his as she goes on to tell him her story. “I don’t care in 
the least for him,” she says; “he is rather a prig. I found out all 
about it at once. You know you said jealousy was a chief ingredi- 
ent, and last night it so happened that I offended his lordship ear- 
ly in the evening so grossly that he declined to notice me after- 


12 


THAT LAST REHEAkSAL. 


wards. He would not even ask me to dance, but devoted himself 
to that pretty Miss Hanley, and — would you believe it? — I didn’t 
mind it in the least; in fact, it amused me. So, you see, I dont’ 
care a bit for him.” 

“Sulky beast!” says Mr. Dynecourt, with withering contempt, 
but in the cheeriest of tones. 

“Yes, isn’t he? As you W(;ren’t there”— with a reproachful glance 
— “1 consoled myself with George Blount, and enjoyed myself im- 
mensely. Now, aren’t you glad?” 

ihis question is asked so naively, and his relief is so great, that 
he bursts out laughing. His companion joins in merrily. 

“Glad doesn’t express it!” exclaims he. “I cannot tell you what 
a miserable time 1 have put in since last 1 saw you. My darling, 
how pretty you arc looking this morning! And isn’t that a very 
charming dress you are wearing?” 

Naturally this pleases her, and she instantly proceeds to tell him 
all about this desirable gown, — where she got it, who made it, and 
the exact amount of the bill sent in to her by Elise. Whilst im- 
parting all this information to her puzzled hearer, she induces him 
in the most artful manner to tell her three distinct times how very 
becoming it is to her. Feeling at last satisfied that he is thoroughly 
impressed by her very charnnng appearance, she thinks fit to change 
the conversation. 

She is in one of her kindest humors, so that when his visit of two 
short hours has drawn to a close she makes him a noble offer of her 
company as far as the gate. On their way thither she says, “When, 
next you are asked to the Grange you must come: it is a very pleas- 
ant house and great fun, and I like to see you there. But,” — with 
a swift glance from under her long lashes — “you musn’t dance so 
much with Florence Blount as you did the last night we were there 
together in poor auntie’s time. Do you remember?” 

“Hardly.” 

“What a politic answer! You know you danced all night with 
her. By the bye,” — with a charming assumption of indifference — 
“does she dance well?” 

“Very well,” replies he, with all a man’s hopeless stupidity. 

“Really?” Then, after a suspicious pause, “I shouldn’t have 
thought it. She looks heavy.” 

“She has rather too good a figure to be called ‘heavy,’ 1 think,” — 
still more stupidly. 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


n 


charming figure!” — stiffly. “I like people inclining towards 
embonpoint myself: they are much more worthy of admiration than 
meagre little creatures like — like me, for instance. She is very 
liandsome, too, isn’t she?” 

“Yes,” — absently. He is thinking of anything in the world but 
Florence Blount, but how can she know that? 

“Fe/v/ handsome?” says she, with uncalled for energy. “Alto- 
get licr, 1 think she would make a very suitable wife for you.” 

“Georgie!” — rousing himself from his pleasant day-dreams — in 
which his companion of the moment bears so large a part — with a 
palpal)le start. 

“Yes: why not? You think she dances divinely, has the loveliest 
figure you ever saw, and is the handsomest woman in the world.” 

“Did I say all that?” 

“Every word, and more. So I see no reason why you should not 
marry her.” 

“Except the simple one that I love another,” replies he, coldly, 
feeling, some anger at her heartless suggestion. 

“I don’t believe you do,” says she, pettishly, though considerably 
mollified. “At least you never tell me you think me good enough 
to look at.” • 

“Why should |I bore you by telling you over and over again what 
you know so well already?” — impatiently. “Good-by, Georgie: I 
have evidently tired you out. I must really go.” 

“You are cross,” says Miss Georgie, coaxingly; “but don’t go for 
a little minute, it is so long since I have seen you.” 

“What a humbug you are!” — smiling. “As if you could forget 
that only one day has passed since our last meeting!” 

“I forget everything when I am with you,” says this coquette, 
archly. Then there is a pause, and then she says, very softly and 
with an air of utmost importance, ‘‘Davy!” 

“Well?” says Davy, stopping short, and feeling sure some dark 
secret is about to be disclosed. 

“1 want to ask you a question,” — taking hold of a button on his 
coat and twisting it nervously, to its serious detriment. 

“Then ask it darling,” — very anxiously. 

“Do I or Florence Blount dance best?” 

Mr. Dynecourt, though strongly tempted to give way to merri- 
ment at this solution of her gravity, with a wisdom beyond his years 
refrains. “You, decidedly,” he says, with emphasis. 


14 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


‘^You are sure?” 

“Positive.” 

“There is something else. A moment since you said you thought 
her very handsome.” 

“Did I? I don’t believe ” 

“Yes, you did. Now, don’t you think — her nose — a little large, 
eh, Davy?” — with a faint laugh and some embarrassment. say 

you think her nose the largest you ever saw.” 

“Quite the largest,” — with comforting conviction ; “ utterly out of 
all prooortion.” 

“I fully agree with you,” — with a delicious laugh. “And her 
figure? It is very fat, isn’t it?” 

“Abominably so.” 

“And you hate fat women?” 

“I simply loathe them: I only care for ‘meagre little creatures’ 
like — you.” 

“Rude boy! But, honestly, you think me prettier than she is?” 

“A thousand times prettier. My darling child, what an absurd 
question! She is not fit to be named in the same day with you.” 

“Ah, now I shall say good-by really, my dearest Davy,” says Miss 
Hamilton, with considerable empressement, tendering to him both 
her friendly little hands, that return undisguisedly his farewell 
pressure. 

Mrs. Blount of the Grange is a very clever woman, — not only 
clever, but sensible, two things that don’t always go together, — and 
is devoted to her step-brother. Captain Stannus. 

The Captain is handsome and susceptible: Miss Hamilton, accord- 
ing to Mrs. Blount’s lights, is handsome and suvsceptible also. Why 
should not two handsome susceptible people be brought together, 
and by a little judicious management be united in heart and fortune? 
I think when Mrs. Blount got to this point in her meditations she 
put the fortune l)efore the heart, as being the more important thing 
of the two. Miss Hamilton’s fortune is considerable, — almost as 
I)retty as herself: the Captain’s is inconsiderable, being indeed of the 
]Mrs. Harris order, vague and shadowy. Beyond ail doubt, Gcorgie 
would make a very suitable wife for dear Fred. 

Nothing can exceed ^Irs. Blount’s kindness. She gives the little 
mistress of the Elms to understand that the Grange is her home 
whenever she may wish to visit it. She is positively unhap|)y if a 


THA T LAST REHEARSAL. 


IS 

whole day passes without bringing her a glimpse of darling Georgie. 
The county (especially the mothers of nice young men) admires her 
conduct immensely, and tells her with a smile how very charming it 
iSi of her to be so attentive to the little orphaned girl. It says a few 
other things too, — behind her back, and without a smile ; but these, 
of course, she does not hear. 

Fred at first proves somewhat refractory, being rather averse to 
matrimony, even with an heiress, and openly disinclined to “range” 
himself for years to come. But when a fortnight has drawn to a 
close he discovers to his everlasting chagrin, that his heart is no 
longer in his own possession, but safe in Miss Georgie’s keeping. 
Against his will he has fallen a victim to the charms of the pretty 
heiress, and knows he would accept her gladly in the morning were 
she without a penny. 

About this time it occurs to Mrs. Blount’s fruitful brain that it is 
better to bring matters to a crisis without further delay. She takes 
into consideration the effect of private theatricals upon a budding 
attachment, and mentally decides that the frequent rehearsal of a 
love-scene must be conducive to the desired result. 

So private theatricals are arranged to take place at the Grange on 
the 3d of August, and every one for ten miles round is invited to 
witness them. Georgie of course is to act; so is Stannus; so is Flor- 
ence, the eldest daughter; so is Dynecourt, but he, unfortunately, 
has business that will keep him in London a good deal just at this 
time, so is not available, and some one else is selected for his part. 
He will return to the country however, the day before the all-impor- 
tant event, and will gladly stay at the Grange from Monday till 
Wednesday, Tuesday being the day appointed for the performance. 

Georgie is intensely delighted with the whole affair, and studies 
her part from morning till night. The play has been run through 
again and again, until at last every one is declared to be almost — if 
not quite — perfect. There are rehearsals in the drawing-room, re- 
hearsals in the shrubberies, or in any other place where chance may 
bring the actors together, and the house is turned upside down. 

On Monday, when Dynecourt arrives, he finds chaos reigning and 
nobody to be found anywhere. Strolling through the room in 
search of Georgie (being filled with a desire to see her ria7ite face 
light up as he gives her the costly trinket he has selected for her 
with such loving care in town), he comes to the door of one of the 
smaller conservatories, across which a heavy velvet curtain is hang- 


i6 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


ing, and, lifting it partially, lcK)ks in. As he looks, his grasp mrol- 
uiitarily tightens upon the velvet, and his face whitens until his very 
lips are bloodless. Spell-bound, as though rooted to the spot he 
gazes at the scene within. 

In the centre of the stone floor stands Georgia, looking very love- 
ly, very earnest, with her blue eyes full of tender longing, while at 
her feet kneels the gallant captain, evidently pleading passionately 
for the small hand he is holding so closely, fondly, between both 
his own. His face is tragic — perhaps, a degree too tragic, if only 
rage and despair would allow Dynecourt to notice it. But the lover- 
like attitude is as nothing to what follows. At this luckless instant 
the captain speaks, addressing Georgie in a tone almost frenzied in 
its vehemence. 

“Darling,” says the captain, “for the last time I kneel to you, and 
entreat you to hear me. Do not, I pray you, let the adulation of 
another” (“That’s me,” says Dynecourt, savagely between his set 
teeth) — “blind you to the honest and heart-felt affection I offer 
you. In you are centred all my hopes of bliss. Do not condemn 
me to life-long misery, but say you will be mine.” 

Dynecourt draws his breath hard, and waits with maddening im- 
patience for the reply to this florid speech. It comes slowly, with 
evidently modest reluctance, from Georgie’s pretty lips. Her head 
is downcast; her hand lies tranquilly in her companion’s; she has 
turned her face a little to one side. 

“How can I answer you?” she says, in clear but trembling ac- 
cents. .“And yet why should I shrink from telling you the truth? 
Yes, I confess it; my heart has long been in your keeping, and, if 
you wish it, I am yours!” 

Dropping the curtain with a smothered and rather highly-flavor- 
ed word, Dynecourt turns away, grief and bitter disappointment at 
his heart. At last the dreadful awakening has come ; she has dis- 
covered her heart is not her own to bestow or withhold at her pleas- 
ure. She is right, of course — quite right. Her love is not to be 
controlled as she thinks fit; but why had she not told him? To 
find such a child so skillful in the art of concealing, chills him to 
his heart’s core; and he had believed her so true, so sweet, so un- 
worldly! With apparently the face of a guileless girl she has proved 
herself old in the wiles and deceptions of the practiced flirt. 

Then a moment comes when he tells himself he is glad of his 
awakening, and pictures to himself the desolation of a life spent 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


*7 

with one who would bear for him no love. But, somehow, il is a 
dismal gladness, that brings with it no consolation. 

“The adulation of another;” the words rankle. For the future 
he will spare her this “adulation” that distresses, and probably an- 
noys, her. ISTor will he interfere with her appreciation of another's 
“honest affection.” 

Later on in the day, when they meet, his manner, though civil, is 
markedly cold and indifferent, while his demeanor towards Miss 
Blount, whom he takes in to dinner, is devoted, almost prononce. 
He takes not the smallest notice of the pretty puzzled child, who 
watches him with great bewildered eyes and tells herself a thousand 
times she must be dreaming. What has she done? 

Then comes bed-hour, and everybody says good-night to every- 
body else, and still Dynecourt is so attentive to Miss Blount that he 
barely notices the small soft hand that is held out to him as its own- 
er bids him good-night in somewhat troubled tones. So the cold 
farewell is said, and all separate ; and two people at least in the 
house lie awake half the night through very wretchedness, and one 
cries bitterly until her richly-fringed lids are pink and sorrowful. 

Next morning it is the same thing over again. At breakfast Dy- 
necourt is seated next Florence, and is carrying on with her an 
animated discussion about toy terriers. Ho barely notices Georgia’s 
greeting, and then goes back to the terrier question, as though the 
success of his argument is all he lives for. 

Georgia’s lips tighten, and a choking sensation rises in her throat. 
With a soft glance she turns to Captain Stannus, who is of course 
beside her, and talks to him all through breakfast, with a grace, a 
cerre, unapproachable. Once, meeting two stern eyes fixed upon 
her from the opposite side of the table, she returns their glance with 
one of defiance that breathes of open war. 

It is half -past eight ; the guests have arrived, and Dynecourt in 
his side-seat is gazing moodingly into space, hardly aware that tne 
curtain has risen and that the play has commenced. 

There is the usual programme. Beauty; Beauty’s true and disin- 
terested admirer; true and disinterested admirer’s villanous rival ; 
the smart chambermaid ; the funny man-^all are here. 

Dynecourt, glowering in his corner, declines to laugh at the funny 
man, and hardly deigns to notice the brilliant costumes that go such 
a long way in private theatrioals. 

Two scenes go off successfully, and the curtain at length rises on 


i8 


that Last tehtatsaL. 


the third and last. It progresses ; Beauty is being tenderly driven 
into a corner; the true and disinterested is gaining ground, until 
finally, with an energy worthy of even a better cause, he flings him- 
self at Beauty’s feet, and for the fourth time entreats her to look 
favorably upon his suit. 

At this moment, it occurs to Dynecourt, whose eyes are fixed upon 
the ground, that something not altogether unfamiliar to his ear is 
being said. He starts, grows a little pale, and turns iiis attention to 
the stage. Captain Stannus is on his knees, and has full possession 
of Georgie's hand. lie is uttering an impassioned speech, the words 
of which fall clearly upon Dynecourt’s ear. 

“Do not, I pray you, let the adulation of another, blind you to 
the honest and heart-felt affection I offer you ” 

It. is all only too palpable. Dynepourt gazes at the actors blankly, 
full of a horrible misgiving. Then comes Beauty’s reply. 

Georgie is perhaps not quite so well up in her part to-night as 
she was yesterday, when in the conservatory she rehearse ! to an 
unseen audience. Her tone falters; her eyes are unsmiling; a curi- 
ous expression of pain has fallen athwart, and somewhat mars the 
joyousness of her usually face. For one brief instant her 

glance wanders, and, travelling over the heads of the listening 
guests, meets and questions Dynecourt. There is a world of disap- 
pointment and reproach in that tender glance, and then the long 
lashes droop, and the eyes return again to the suppliant before her. 

Bemorse, self-reproach, keen anger at his own folly, threaten to 
overwhelm Dynecourt, and would perhaps gain mastery but for the 
extreme feeling of relief that grows within him and permeates his 
whole being. He scarcely sees how the play ends, but as the curtain 
falls pushes his way triumphantly through the throng of applauders, 
and, crossing the hall, enters the impromptu green-room, where 
actors and actresses are all talking and laughing and congratulatiiig 
each other freely on th.e happiness of the whole affair. But the 
little figure so charming in its old-world finery has disappeared. 
Georgie is nowhere to be seen. 

Florence Blount, resplendent in powder and patches, comes sailing 
towards him. She is of the large and fleshy type, and looks un- 
commonly well in powder, — a fact of which she is fully aware. 

“Have you come to say something pretty to us?” she says, with her 
orthodox smile. “It is scarcely form — is it? — to force an eTifree into 
our private room; but we forgive you. Oh, Georgie! Yes, how 


THA T LAST TEHEATSAL. 


19 


well she acted, but how painfully nervous she was just at last. Did 
you notice? She was hardly oif the stage when she burst out crying, 
and said she felt tired and frightened. Poor little thing! She has 
gone to her room: Katie is with her, I fancy. ’ 

“Ah,” says Dynecourt. If his life depended upon it, he couldn’t 
at this moment form a sentence. His eyes are lowered, his tone 
might mean anything. 

‘ Don’t you think you like old-fashioned plays?” goes on Miss 
Blount, vivaciously. “The dressing and all that is so effective.” 

Dynecourt murmurs something. 

“Oh, thanks, ever so many, but I am quite tired of hearing that. 
Yes, powder is becoming. 1 wish some great lady would adopt 
it for cojumon use, and then we should all follow suit; and as 
for the patches, I really think I shall take to them without waiting 
foraleMfrom any great lady. Georgie? No, I am almost sure 
she will not come down again to-night. You see she is so upset, 
nervous, what you will,” etc. 

Dynecourt, disappointed, impatient, turns away, and, after a de- 
cent delay, frames a proper excuse and quits the house. He is con- 
scious stricken, and yet at heart more glad, more hopeful than he 
has ever been in all his life before. 

* * * * * * H: * 

It is evening, but very early evening; as yet upon its borders the 
baby night sits crouching, not daring to advance. All the earth is 
still: not a murmur, not a whisper from the distant ocean, that lies 
sweetly sleeping in the bay, comes to disturb the calm and tender 
silence of the dying day. 

Suddenly upon the great quiet a little bark falls noisily, then an- 
other and another, and all Mr. Dynecourt’s merry terriers, flinging 
themselves against the entrance-gate of the Elms, burst it open, and 
with one accord rush up the gravelled path. Their master follows 
them slowly, hesitatingly, with a palpably guilty air. 

The little dogs run on before. Charlie scampering well in front 
and barking vigorously, as is their wont. Coming to a certain corner 
half hidden in the dusky shadows, they pause, and with a sniff of 
recognition bound towards it, where a slender figure upon a rustic 
seat reclines somewhat sadly. 

The young man sees her too, and advances with singular reluct- 
ance. How will she receive his apologies, this prettv, passionate, 
ill-used child? His heart beats with considerable rapidity as the 


50 


r//A T LAST REHEARSAL, 


small figure rises, and, coming quietly from out the gloom, holds 
out to him a cold, unfriendly hand. 

‘‘Grood-e verting, ” she says, icily. Her eyelids are suspiciously red, 
her head is bent. 

“Good-evening,” replies he, nervously; and then speech forsakes 
him and her, and silence short but eloquent follows. At.length he 
breaks it. “I only came for a minute or two to ask how you are af- 
ter Tuesday night's fatigue,” he says, uncomfortably and rather 
disjoiutedly. ^ 

“How kind of you!’’ — in a tone that strikes cold upon his heart. 

“I am only pretty well, thank you. My head has ached horrible, 
all day. It has got into my eyes, the pain, and made me wretched.” 

“So I can see,” returns he, gently, gazing with tender solicitude 
upon the tell-tale lids. “Have you done nothing for it?’’ 

“Everything, but nothing has done me good,” — with a faint touch 
of pettishness. 

“Try eau de cologne,” says he, more because he can think of noth- 
ing else to say than from any strong belief in i|s virtues. 

“I have none: I used the last drop I possessed yesterdajp.” 

“Let me go home for some,” — eagerly: “I shan’t be a moment, 
and ” 

“Not for — with unpleasant emphasis: “I would not give 

you so much trouble for anything. Do not go: I shall not use it if 
you do.” ; 

“Oh, if you will not,” returns he, piqued, flushing darkly, “of 
course I shall not do what is unpleasing to you. Well, I shall not 
detain you longer: good-evening.” 

“dn such a hurry to reach the Grange?” puts in she, quickly, child- 
ishly, with a shrug of her ])retty shoulders. 

“I am not going to the Grange, Georgia. Why do you speak to 
me like this?” 

“I wonder I speak to you at all,” — petulantly. 

“So do I,” — haughtily: “talking always makes a bad head worse. 
Forgive me that I have kept you standing so long. Again good- 
evening.” 

“Good-by,” returns she, with suppressed meaning. 

^^Good-hyf That is a dismissal,” says he, bitterly. 

He holds out his band, and she places hers within it. The little 
fingers he clasps are dry and burning. He holds them closely, silent- 
ly watching her face, which she has studiously turned from his. “At 


THA T LAST REHEARSAL. 


21 


least accompany me to the gate, ” he says, in a changed Toice, out of 
which all the hauteur has vanished, leaving only grief and regret be- 
hind it. 

She makes no reply, but, with her face still averted' and her hand 
still clasped in his, moves beside him down the walk towards the 
gate. 

Just as they reach it a little sob smites upon his ear, and then he 
knows that she is crying. 

“Georgiel Georgiel what is it?” exclaims he, in an agony, trying 
to meet her eyes, but with both her hands she has covered them very 
successfully. 

“That horrible, odious, detestable Florence Blount!” she says, 
presently: “oh, how miserable she has made me! But of course it 
is no wonder you should like her best ; she is so tall and handsome, 
while/— I am only small and insignificant, and so — so young!” 

“Georgie, let me ” 

“I do not blame you. But why did you tell me a lie the other day 
when you said you thought me prettier than she ?” 

“My darling! my angel ?” says Mr. Dynecourt, taking her gently, 
gladly, in his arras, “how can you be so foolish? Don’t you know 
every bit of heart I have is yours? And as to comparing you with 
that large overgrown woman of the world, my beloved, I would not 
do you such a wrong. ” 

“Then it isn’t true? you are sure? you are certain?” asks Geor- 
gie, visibly brightening. “ Then how could ’you go on as you did the 
other night, sitting near her, and talking to her, and looking into 
her eyes, and behaving so abominably in every way?” 

“Let me explain,” entreats the young man, in a contrite tone ; 
and then he does explain, and tells her all about that fatal rehearsal 
in the conservatory, and his despair and jealousy, and how he dis- 
covered his mistake, and came up this evening to throw himself on 
her mercy, but was prevented by her coldness from making any 
explanation. 

“Oh, how glad I am!” says Georgie, with a deep sigh of relief. 
And then she throws her arms around his neck in the fulness of 
her joy, and lays her soft curly head upon his chest. “Perhaps all 
has happened for the best,” she whispers, “because until that Tues- 
day night I never really knew how much I loved you But now 
I know.” 

“How do you know, Georgie?” 


22 


THAT LAST REHEARSAi.. 


“You remember all you said to me that day long ago about^people 
who were in love. I didn’t believe you then, but now 1 do. I know 
I should like to have you always near me” — with a little shy laugh 
and an adorable blush ; “and I should be dreadfully jealous if you 
liked any one better tlian me; and’’ — the smile fading apd tears 
coming into her eyes — “if you were to die I know I should die too> 
because I couldn’t live without you.” 

“My own darling!” says Dynecourt, in a low, unsteady voice 
itraining her to his heart. 


THE END. 


THE DILEMMA. 

BY THE ‘^DUCHESS.’^ 


PuGGLEMORE, having sprung into existence on a site both high 
and dry, was consequently healthy. It was full of old men. Indeed, 
so liberal was the supply, one might have formed a real and efficient 
“chorus” out of them. 

There was old Mr. Blount of the Manor, and old Sir James at the 
Park. There was old Mr. Grant' at the Grange, ami old Mr. Jones 
at the Rectory; and so many more besides that were I to bring them 
before you you would say 1 was a writer of fiction, instead of a true 
and authenticated tale. , 

Of those I have mentioned, the two former were fast friends. 
They had the same pursuits, the same ideas, and very much affected 
each other’s society. 

They were naturalists, — or thought themselves so — it makes little 
difference. What was a commonplace butterfly to you was some- 
thing else to them, and went by an intolerably long name. The 
longer the name, the more learned they felt themselves; and 
in this, perhaps, lay the gist of the whole matter. 

They were harmless, not to say delightful old gentlemen, and had 
in reality warm hearts (though, to inspect their studies, where rested 
the trophies of their chase in the form of mangled insects, one might 
be forgiven for doubting it), but unfortunately they had one settled 
conviction impossible to shake. 

, They looked upon marriage as an institution of the evil one! 
They viewed each new-born babe with a groan! They listened to an 
account of the most satisfactory wedding with a dolorous sigh. 

Sir James had a large income and a handsome nephew; Mr. 
Bhumt a comfortable rent-roll and a lovely niece. Both these chil- 
dren being orphans, were dear to the old men’s hearts, — dear as the 
apple of their eyes , — so dear that they had decided long ago on 
keeping them single all their lives, so to protect them from the 


2 


THE DILEMMA. 


‘^slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,*’ that must of necessity 
wound those unlucky ones who, for want of a warning word, slipped 
into the shoals of matrimony. 

One evening, whilst in a genial mood while over their port (both 
the victims being present) they openly disclosed their intention; 
wliereupon young King raising his eyes met Clarissa’s full, and 
there and then decided .he loved her with all the fervor of an 
impassioned soul, while Clarissa Blount — Clarissa dropped her eyes 
demurely, blushed crimson, and on the instant felt for Pelham — 
well, all that a modest maiden should feel for a strictly eligible 
young man. Both old gentleman were bachelors, and the Park was 
entailed. 

Though, to do Clarissa justice, I think just then she thought more 
of Pelham King's regard than of all that the Park could give her. 

She was a very pretty girl, of medium height, with irreproachable 
hands and feet. She was slender, piquante, charming, — in a word, 
chic. Pelham was tall, with a fine figure, and, if not exactly hand- 
some, was undoubtedly good to look at. They seemed made for 
each ottier. The very estates over which their respective uncles 
reigned (and which at their death should in common fairness come 
to them) were joined for several miles. Nothing could be more satis- 
factory; and yet these wretched old gentlemen, through a mistaken 
sense of duty, h^ pronounced their veto against all love-making, 
and would not so much as sanction that most disagreeable of all 
things, a lengthy engagement. 

As often as Clarissa and Pelham had hinted at their mutual at- 
tachment, as often had their hints been received with an air of non- 
comprehension maddening to endure. Sir James King and his 
friepd would none of it. 

At last matters came to a crisis, and young King and \\\?> fiancee 
determined to make a stand once for all. They vowed they would 
face the lion> in their dens, and receive either consent to their union 
or the reverse from their hard-hearted relatives. They arrived at 
this decision after much deliberation and inward misgivings, because 
the uncles were obstinate; and to voluntarily resign five thousand a 
year goes against human nature. The Park was entailed, but the 
IVlanor was not. 

“Nevertheless 1 shall speak,” said Pelham. 

“Do,” said Clarissa, with a doubtful sigh. 

And ho spoke, The hour he chose to make his important demand 


THE DILEMMA. 


3 

was the breakfast lioiir, in whicli, I think ho made a mistake, as I 
have always noticed that people are either iii the dumps or in a 
downright rage in the morning, and it is oldy when the sun lias 
heated the day that geniality may be said to have set in. However, 
Pelham, whose heart was near his lips on this occasion, could not 
wait on prudence, but declared offhand and earnestly his desire to 
wed with Miss Clarissa Blount. 

“Married!” said Sir James, in a voice of horror largely mingled 
with contempt. “Have I heard you aright, or do my ears deceive 
me? Did you say you wished to get married?” 

As he said this, he got up from the breakfast table, leaviiy^ the 
savory morsel of toast he had reserved as a last good bite upon his 
plate — forgotten. He himself kept his face well shaven, and nature 
had done so much for his head, leaving only two insignificant tufts 
on either side of the skull. When angry or annoyed ^which to do 
him justice, was frequently), he would run his hands through these 
tufts, compelling them to stand upright, as though ordering them 
to come to his assistance. He did so now, and Pelham knew the 
battle had begun. 

“I certainly did say so,” returned he, quietly, while struggling 
with an inclination to laugh. 

“And to that senseless chit, Clarissa Blount! Never, Pelham, 
never! You shall never marry Clarissa; you shall never marry 
any oyieT 

“But, my dear uncle, I must, and shall.” 

shall, sir, when I say you shan't? Have I reared you for 
seven-and-twenty years to hear you say that? Do you think I dhn’t 
know what is best for you? Matrimony is a mockery, a delusion 
and a snare. Avoid it ! Put it out of your head ! ” 

Pelham was standing with his back to the fire. He had entire 
possession of the hearth-rug. This is a proud position, and gives 
one a decided advantage. 

“To oblige you I would do almost anything,” he said, courteously; 
“but, unfortunately I<;annot put Clarissa out of my heart.” 

“I am not speaking of your heart, sir; keep her there, by all 
means; but put matrimony out of your head." 

“But I am fond of Clarissa, and she — is fond of me. We feel we 
could live together comfortably for any number of years. But 

without matrimony You will excuse me. Sir James, if 1 say 

your suggestions are somewhat broad, to say the least of them,” 


4 


THE DILEMMA. 


“Broad! — nonsense! You know what I mean! Forget this 
young woman. Be a sensible boy. Go in for science, as I do, and 
be happy.” 

“I don’t think it would make me happy,” said Pelham, reflec- 
tively, trifling with his eye-glass. He liked to think himself short- 
sighted. “I confess I don’t care for — for — griob — of the sort, at 
least, you mean; and I do care for Clarissa. lam sorry, uncle, but 
I feel almost sure I shall marry her whether you like it or not.” 

“You defy me!” cried the old gentleman, flercely, speaking in 
such loud tones as argued well for the strength of his lungs. “You 
rely, perhaps, upon the entail. But know, sir, I shall cut you ofl ; 
I shall leave you a beggar: I shall marry ^ sir!” 

Pelham played with his watch-chain, but made no reply, unless 
an irrepressible smile might be considered one. 

“Ha, you smile!” went on Sir James, growing every moment more 
frenzied. You think, perhaps, I could not get a young and charm- 
ing wife at my age. But I am not so old, sir, let me tell you : I am 
not so old as you seem to think.” 

“Old, my dear sir! On the contrary I think you a wonderfully 
young man, — for your years. 1 feel assured any young woman in 
the country would gladly accept your hand, — any, that is, except 
Clarissa. Knowing my wild infatuation for Miss Blount, 1 put you 
on your honor not to interfere with my hopes in that quarter.” 

So saying, he beat a hasty and politic retreat, leaving Sir James 
actually foaming over this last and crowning piece of impertinence. 
* * * * * * 

Meantime, Clarissa, having screwed up her courage to the sticking- 
point, had broken her wishes to her uncle and had been pooh-poohed 
vehemently. 

“Tut!” said Mr. Blount; “I am surprised at you, Clarissa. Do 
you think I would allow anything so disgraceful as a wedding in 
my house? Nonsense, my dear ! you should know better. Besides, 
I care for you too much to sane tion your committing such a folly 
as matrimony.” 

“But, dear uncle, I — love Pelham.” 

“Folly, child! MZZ girls love their would-be husbands before- 
hand, or think they do. But does it last? I ask you, Clarissa, as a 
reasonable being, does it last? Look at the Smackbys and the 
Bangleys! Are not they all at loggerheads? While it is a matter 
of fact that the fire-irons at the Clashers’ are commonly reported to 


THE DILEMMA. 5 

be worn out, so constantly are they used by the master and mistress 
for offensive and defensive purposes.” 

“But, uncle, I am sure 1 should never take the poker to Pelham; 
aiiil I know dear Pelham would die rather than exercise the tongs 
ou ’Tie.” 

‘ Perhaps; perhaps. But you would nag at each other in six 
m Tilths, and 1 know no weapon so hurtful as the tongue. Be con- 
tent, Clarissa; stay here. At my death you shall inherit, not only 
all my money, but” — in a low and deeply impressive tone — col- 
lection! I promise it ; I swear it. Do not doubt my keeping my word.” 

“Oh, uncle ” 

“No thanks, my dear — not a word. It iS priceless, I well know; 
but you have been a good girl in most ways. Give up this foolish 
idea. Devote yourself to nature and all its glorious gifts. Scale 
the rocky mountains in search of fresh beauties ! Roam through 
the woods in pursuit of the wandering bee ! Grope in the earth 
after the wriggling worm! Prowl through brakes and uplands for 
the wary butterfly ! See, Clarissa” — drawing her excitedly towards 
a large cabinet full of drawers, all carefully marked and docketed 
— “see, you shall have even this — a rarity — a creature as yet unpos- 
sessed save by meD 

As he spoke he showed her a huge, unsightly insect, glutinous 
and leggy, safely impaled. 

^'This shall be yours,” he said, in a slow and solemn tone. 

“I don’t want it,” said Clarissa. “Horrid ugly thing! I would 
rather have one kiss from Pelham than the whole of them put to- 
gether!” She said this vehemently, with a pout, and an unmistak- 
able show of tears. 

“Out, unhappy girl!” cried Mr. Blount, shutting up his cherish- 
e 1 trophy with a bang suggestive of indignation. “You are be- 
witched — besotted. But for your own sake you must be cured of 
this infatuation.” 

“I don’t want to be cured,” said this perverse girl, with a forlorn 
sob, and a rush of tears that ran all down her pretty cheeks; “I 
only want to be married.'^'* 

“Never, with my permission.” 

“You are a monster to refuse it,” said Clarissa, passionately, 

“Leave the room,” returned her uncle, with considerable force. 
“Go!” And as she obeyed him he turned back again to his adored 
possessions, murmuring, in high disgust, “She must be lost! — lost! 


6 THE DILEMMA, 

To compare my priceless discovery with an obnoxious — 
faugh!” 

Pelham, hurrying through the wood in' search of his beloved, en- 
countered that young lady presently, seatel on the top of the stile. 
That was their usual trysting-place. The tears were still wet upon 
her cheeks; she was altogether most disconsolate. Pelham was 
Scarcely less so. 

“You have had bad news,” said he, when he had given her a lov- 
er’s greeting. ^ 

“ Ver\f bad” — with a dolorous sigh. “And you?” 

“Nothing cou4d be worse.” 

“Oh, yes, dear, mine must be, because he may leave the Manor to 
whf)m he chooses; while you at least are safe, the Park being en- 
tailed.” 

“That is all very well,” said Pelham, ruefully; “but, unfortu- 
nately, Sir James has decided upon taking to himself a young and 
blushing bride; and where shall I be when the son and heir appears 
upon the scene?” 

marry r said Clarissa; and then, in spite of herself, she 
burst out laughing. And Pelham joined her, and presently their 
mirth grew to such a pitch that they nearly fell off the stile. 

“It is the best thing I ever heard in my life,” said Clarissa. 

“It may be, but it is true, nevertheless. You should have seen 
his face when I/put him on his honor not to propose to you. I am 
sure he will marry. You know how obstinate and persevering he is, 
an 1 ho.v unlikely to give in.” 

“Whit -s/iaZZ we do?” said Clarissa. 

“Marry,” said Pelham. “If the worst comes to the worst, T have 
al ways that five hundred a year inherited from my mother. It is a 
come-down from thousands, I grant you.” 

“It is,” she said, thoughtfully, her chin resting on her hand. 

“Do you shrink from it?” asked he, a suspicion of disappoint- 
ment in his tone. 

“For your sake, yes,” — raising her clear eyes to his. “For me, T 
should be as happy with you on five hundred as on five thousand a 
year, and you know it. But will you never repent, or think of what 
you have lost?” 

“How dare you utter such heresies?” said he. pinching the little 

i^hell-pirili ear pej^rest him, ^‘For the fptpre I forbid to imrbor 


THE. DILEMMA. 


1 


such unholy thoughts. With you for my portion I shall be always 
rich. Besides,” — laughing, — “the Temple of Fame is still open to 
me.” (For several years he had enjoyed the proud position of a 
briefless barrister.) ‘‘Who knows but I shall sit upon the wool- 
sack yet?” 

“Not unless you reform, you idle boy.” 

“With you for my Mentor I shall undoubtedly become a brilliant 
member of the bar: I feel it — I know it,” said Pelham, with exag- 
gerated excitement. “ I shall astonish the natives before I die.” 

Much refreshed by this distant hope, they parted tenderly and 
went home. 

Pelham was right. Sir James’s threat was by no means an idle 
one. Incensed to an unusual degree by his nephew’s disregard of 
his express commands, he seriously made up his mind to punish him 
Vjy cutting him ofl from all chance of ever gaining the property. To 
achieve this end, he would even sacriflce himself. And, with liis 
thoughts full of his coming marriage, he sallied forth in search of 
his trusty friend John Blount. 

Half-way he met him hurrying towards the Park, and instantly 
there followed a rush of confldences, terminating in Sir James’s fixed 
resolution to get a wife without loss of time. 

“A icifeT cried Mr. Blount, in a tone of the liveliest horror, 
while he turned not so much pale as a delicate green,— because his 
complexion inclined that way. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” said Sir James, testily, deciding not to notice 
the other’s dismay^’ “I shall punish him, sir; I shall punish him. 
Hd shall learn not only what it is to offend me, but the dift’erence 
between five hundred and five thousand a year. I shall manw, sir, 
instantly.” 

We are all human, therefore all selfish. Mr. Blount had by this 
time arrived at the knowledge that it was his friend, not himself, 
who was to be made unhappy. There was great comfort in the re" 
flection. And, after all; the naughty pair certainly ought to be 
made to feel their conduct; and if Sir James really didn’t mind, 
and if — and if 

“Nothing too young, I suppose?” he said, with a deprecatory 
cough. 

“No, certainly not a child; and yet — nothing too old either. Ju^t 
a nice disparity. You will understand, because it is to you, old 
friend, I leave the task of finding a fitting bride.” 


8 


THE DILEMMA. 


“I shall do my best. But — pause, James, pause before you irre- 
trievably ruin your ” 

“I shall not pause,” said Sir James, irascibly. “ I shall teach 
him his duty even at the risk of my own peace.” 

“To-night I shall think over every woman I have the misfortune 
to know,” replied Mr. Blount, seeing it was vain to argue, “and you 
shall hear my opinion to-morrow.” 

So they parted. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Now, Piigglemore, although rich in old men, was poor in maidens, 
— that is, young onhs. Of spinsters on the shady side of forty it 
could, however, boast a considerable few. Of this latter class Miss 
Jemima Grant was a very principal feature. In the beginning of 
this story I mentioned Mr. Grant, but 1 did not mention Mr. Grant’s 
sister, which was a mistake, as she was by far the finer man of the 
two. Miss Jemima was the sister. 

Nature had moulded her on a large scale. She was strong in 
mind and body, — specially in the former. She had small -eyes and 
a huge mouth, and was remarkable nosy. Her ears were of luxuri- 
ant growth; her cheek-bones inclined towards her eyes. Her hair — 
such of it as grew on her head — was sparse and ill-favored, but else- 
where it sought to make up for its deficiencies, as on her chin flour- 
ished as thriving a beard as any young cornet might be proud of. 
Altogether, she was not prepossessing. 

She was the terror of her brother, with whom she resided. He 
was small and^ harmless, with a passion for gardening, especially 
kitchen-gardening, and spent most of his days superintending the 
growth of such vegetables as contribute to the comfort of the inner 
man. His great hobby was cucumbers. Fortunately, Miss Jemima 
had not seen fit to interdict this amusement. 

She had a large fortune entirely at her own disposal ; and, strange 
as it may appear, it was on her Mr. Blount settled as a proper bride 
for his friend. She was thrifty, he argued; not quite forty; a fine 
woman, who might still be the mother of several heirs; and — and — 
would do as well as another. 

To do him justice, he had spent a sleepless night before coming to 
this conclusion. But once come to it, he assured himself she would 
be the right woman in the right place. Perhaps he thought the bet- 
ter of her because Mr. Grant and he were chums and had been boys 
together, and he had seen a good deal of Miss Jemiir^a in his young 


THE DILEMMA. 


9 

days. And her nose had been shorter then, and her temper longer, 
and the beard had not put in an appearance. 

Or perhaps he thought of her because just then he was writing 
to her brother about some wonderful cucumbers, the seeds for which 
he had procured and was anxious to share. However it was, when 
he had finished his letter to Mr. G-rant, he took up another sheet of 
paper and wrote to Sir James, advising him strongly to make Miss 
Jemima Lady King. 

Just as he had finished his writing, Clarissa opened the door and 
came in. Her eyes were red, but her carriage was undaunted. 

“Writing, uncle?” said she, with perfect good-humor, though 
there was a little malice in her gray eyes. It was customary with 
her to read and sometimes write all her uncle’s correspondence: so he 
now thought nothing odd of her leaning on his shoulder and delib- 
erately conning botli the letters as they lay beneath her on the table, 
innocent of envelopes. 

She smiled as she read about the cucumbers. 

“How funny it does sound!” she said; “and how queerly you ex- 
press yourself! You should always let me write for you.” And 
theii she read the letter about Jemima. 

“Poor Sir James!” she said softly, “I wonder if she will bring 
all her pigs and that awful old pony with her to the Park? Shall I 
fold them up for you, dear? You seem busy. What! going to 
write again? You will be over-fatigued.” 

Then she folded the letters neatly, put them in their envelopes, 
and laid them before Mr. Blount. 

“Direct this to Sir James,” she said. 

And he did so. 

“And this to Mr. Grant,” she said. 

And he did likewise. 

The next day rose calm and smiling, giving no hint of the fearful 
storm with which it was to close. 

Sir James and his nephew, who ever since their rupture had not 
been on the sweetest terms, came down to breakfast unconscious of 
the bombshell that lay upon the breakfast-table. 

The post was in, and rested on the silver salver in the very centre 
of the cloth, as was the custom at the Park. 

It w-aS a' small post,— so small, indeed, as to consist of one letter 
onlyv It was addressed to Sir James, and was directed in Mr. Blount’s 


!0 


THE DILEMMA. 


straggling writing, that resembled nothing so ranch as the dying 
struggles of one of his own defunct grasshoppers. 

“Hein!^’ said Sir James, uneasily, feeling rather frightened as he 
remembered his friend’s promise to write and let him know his de- 
cision. 

Taking up the letter, he adjusted his spectacles, — with so much 
care as suggested a desire on his part to delay the fatal moment, — 
then opened it and read. 

He read it once. He read it twice. Three times he read it. His 
face grew a dusky red; his knees shook; he tried to clear his throat, 
but a choking gasp alone came. 

At last he could endure it no longer. 

‘‘Read that,” he said, flinging the epistle across the table to his 
nephew, and thereby breaking his vow never again in life or death 
to address him of his own accord. 

Pelham, putting liis eye-glass in his eye, read out loud as follows: 

“Manor, Monday 14th, 1877. 

“My dear Sir, — After the last conversation we had together, you 
will be glad to hear that I have, without doubt, found the very 
thing that will suit you. 1 will describe to you what 1 mean in 
concise terms, and you can let me know if it is what you require. 
The name is Beaconsfield, — very prolific; of a beautiful dark green 
skin; black spine; and a very small neck. These are the princi* 
pie beauties. Pray let me know if it pleases you. 

“Faithfully yours, 

“John Blount.” 

“Cucumbers,” said Pelham to himself, who who was something 
of a gardener; but seeing his uncle’s agitated face, and being nat< 
urally desirous of revenge, he held his peace. 

“Well?” said Sir James, in a very agony of suspense. 

“I confess I don’t understand it,” returned Pelham, turning the 
letter round and round in with a fine show of bewilderment. 

“Not understand it? What do you mean by that Pelham ? After 
all the education I have thrown away upon you, you calmly tell me 
you don’t understand the Queen’s English! I insist on your under- 
standing it, sir. In what light does it strike you? 

“Well, perhaps it might be styled a little indecent, ’’said Pelham, 
slowly. “I presume he alludes to the — a — lady you intend marry- 
ing; and in doing so he mentions her spins. I don’t wish to im- 
pugn either the good taste or the moral character of your friend, Sir 
James; but how on earth co\ild he know the color of her spine?” 

“You are a fool!'" roared Sir James. “Don’t you see it is a gross 


THE DILEMMA. 


II 


piece of. impertinence. He thinks to make a jest of it. Because 1 
arn not- a young jackanapes such as — such as you ” 

(**Thank you.”) 

“I arn to be made a butt of. But I’ll let ’em see ” 

“1 really do not think the thing savors of a jestt^ said Pelham, 
seriously, regarding the unlucky note again. “It seems quite hona 
fide. There is no accounting for tastes. Who knows? — Mr. Blount 
himself may have a fancy for black spines, and small necks, and — 
and alPthe rest of it,” 

“Hold your tongue, Pelham.” 

“I will, sir. I am sorry I offend you ; but you asked my opinion. 
And yet, my dear uncle,” — pausing on his way to the door, and 
speaking in a solemn tone, — “I do not believe I am doing ray duty 
by you unless I entreat you earnestly to hesitate before imperilling 
the whole happiness of your existence by placing yourself in the 
power of a person rejoicing in a — black spine!” 

He sank his voice to a whisper, and closed the door with some 
precipitancy behind him. 

Two hours later Mr. Blount rushed in white and terror-stric^ken ; 
whereupon ensued an awful scene. But everything paled before the 
news he brought. 

Miss Jemima had read the letter addressed to her brother, — but 
meant for Sir James, — and which so unluckily and mysteriously had 
gotten into the wrong envelope. In it Mr. Blount had described 
lier in exactly glowing language, and the result may be imagined. 

She had instantly dispatched a note to him desiring him to meet 
her without fail at Sir James King’s house that day, at two o’clock 
precisely, as she had “something to say to both gentlemen.’’ 

“It is positively awful,” said poor Mr. Blount, with tears in his 
eyes. “I wrote of her in such a way as — as — I certainly would not 
care for her to see. 1 said something to the effect that you need not 
mind her beard, as there is now a famous capillary powder warranted 
to remove the stoutest crop of hair in five minutes. Oh! oh ! What 
shall I do?” 

“On your own head be it,” said Sir James, cruelly. “What ! did 
you imagine I would wed with a Tartar like that? Man, you must 
have taken leave of your senses.” 

“You desired me to write — 

“But pot pf her,” 


12 


THE DILEMMA. 


“Well, there’s no use in quarrelling about it. I said in that letter 
that, as you were on the look-out for a wife, slie would suit you, and 
of course, having read it, she will insist on being Lady King.” 

“Never! She shall walk over my dead body first!” 

Here Pelham and Clarissa (who had accompanied her uncle to the 
Park, seeing him almost deranged, and being in truth a little fright- 
ened at the mischief she had done by displacing the letters) entered 
the room and were instantly taken into confidence by both old 
gentlemen. 

“See what he has done by extreme carelessness,” said Sir James,' 
severely. 

“How can I make reparation?” asked the other, penitently, seeing 
the new-comers rather against him. 

“By marrying her yourself,” declared Sir James, solemnly. “She 
has always had penchant for you. You can now redeem your stu- 
pidity by coming to the front and wedding her.” 

“For me ! — a weakness forme.'” — indignantly. “And how shown, 
may I ask? I never spoke five words to her in the last ten years.” 

“They must have been five very effective words,” said Sir James, 
sardonically. “There is no use your blinding yourself to the truth, 
Blount. All the world knows she has had her eye on you for the 
past six years. Ask your niece if it isn’t a fact.” 

“Dear uncle, I am afraid it is only too true,” murmured Clarissa, 
in tones of the deepest commiseration. 

“T don’t care where her eyes have been,” said Mr. Blount, now 
drive'll to desperation. “Nothing on earth shall induce me to mar- 
ry any one. And ” 

“It is just two o'clock.” said Pelham, dismally. 

“A.h!” said Sir James, with a staH. 

“Oh !” groaned John Blount from his heart. 

^^And here she is!'" said Pelham, in a low and freezing tone. 

There was a simultaneous rush to the window. Yes, there she was! 

Bonier, nosier, more angular than ever, with a portentous frown 
upon her brow, she drove up the avenue in full view of the unhappy 
culprits. She was seated in the high vehicle — of name and pattern 
unknown — that in her great-great-grandfather’s time had been in 
use, and had been a second-hand purchase even then — and was evi- 
dently full of purpose. 

Horror and dismay came in her train, and settled upon the little 
gi’oup standing in the window above her. 


THE DILEMMA. 


13 

A cold dew came out upon sir James’s brow; Mr. Blount grew apo- 
pletic; Clarissa looked thoroughly alarmed; while Pelham, standing 
behind them, was fighting with a wild desire for laughter. 

“Blount,” says Sir James, presently, ‘‘1 hope by this time you see 
what is the only honorable course left open to you. 1 hope you in - 
tend going down instantly to propose to that deeply-injured lady.' 
fJere he took the high and moral tone. 

“A fig for honor!” said old Blount, with an irreverent snap of the 
first finger and thumb, misfortune rendering him depraved. *'Yon> 
said you wanted a wife, and now ” 

“Miss Grant is in the drawing-room,” announced a servant at this 
moment, with startling and abominable opportuneness. 

“Blount, you liad better go down and see her,” said Sir James 

“[ won’t,” replied Mr. Blount, emphatically. 

“You are a coward, sir.” 

“I am^ sir. Where that woman is concerned I confess myself de- 
void of pluck.”* 

'•Pelhaiu, what is to be done?” said his uncle, appealing to him, 
wiih tears in hiseyes. “What can 1 say? 1 know if 1 go down tliat 
woman will marry me in spite of myself, assure as I am here. Pel- 
ham, can’t you do something 

“1 can,” said Pelham, taking Clarissa’s hand and leading her up 
to the two old men. “I will make a bargain with you. If you 
will consent to give Clarissa to me, and me to Clarissa, I will under- 
take to send Miss Jemima home in good temper, and restore to you 
the letter that has caused all this annoyance.” 

Even then they hesitated: with destruction staring them in the 
face, they could not bring themselves to accept such condilions. 
They regarded each other fixedly, they wavered, and then 

An impatient bell rang loudly through the house. The drawing- 
room door (which was exactly opposite that of the library, in which 
they all stood, transfixed with horror) was thrown open, and tlie 
stentorian sound of Miss Jemima’s lungs made itself heard. 

“Is no one at home!” she asked, addressing a petrified attendant. 
“Am 1 to be kept here all day? I shall not leave until I see Sir 
James King.” 

Sir James turned a shade paler, and looked as though he could 
have fallen upon his friend’s shoulder and wept through sheer funk, 
but for tile appearance of the thing. There was a hushed pause. 

“Miss Jemima seems impatient,” says Pelham, suggestively. “Am 


14 THE DILEMMA, 

1 to see her, sir — or will 'you — or, perhaps Mr. Blount ” 

‘‘Go, go. We give in. Hurry, boy.” 

“Hurry, ray dear, dear Pelham,” gasped the two delinquents. 
And Pelham, pressing Clarissa’s hand, went out to interview the 
terrible person who was marching impatiently up and down the 
pretty drawing-room at the Park. 

What he said to her, or how he said it, matters little. tie tri- 
umphed. Blither Miss Jemima was averse to matrimony with Sir 
James, or else the thought had never struck her; but she did not 
once touch on the subject of marriage, and flung the oflending let- 
ter to the young man, on a slight hint from him, as though its near 
contact insulted her. 

She certainly muttered something about a horsewhipping that 
was to come off in the market-place on the first available opportu- 
nity, in which she was to play the part of executioner, Mr. Biouut 
that of victim ; but even this vengeaiice she consented to foregf), 
when the young lawyer’s silver tongue had been brought to bear 
upon her. 

Then she rose and made for the triumphal chariot that was to 
convey her back to the Grange. 

In the hall, however, she made a last pause, and faced her com- 
panion. 

“You may tell Sir James,” she said, in tones that struck cold to 
the hearts of the three listeners in the lihrarv. making the»n shiver 
in their shoes where they stood (T am ashamed to confess it), clo<e 
to the keyhole, “you may tell him it was well for him T did not 
make up my mind to accept the situation and marrv him: for ha I 
] done so I should undoubtedly have led him to the altar, whether 
he liked it or not.” 

‘I don t doubt it, madam,” said Pelham, meekly. “I reerret you 
did not think of it. I feel assured your acceptance of Sir James as 
a husband would now be the only thing that could console him for 
the grief he endures at having (however unintentionallv) causcl 
you the slightest annovance. Perhaps — you still — might think of 
It?”— diffidently. 

(“Oh, scoundrel! he will spoil it all!” said Sir James, shaking 
his fist in the air in mingled fear and rage.) 

“Go in. young man.” said Miss Jemima, “go in. You are a fash- 
ionable liar — one of the worst things going. I dare say if I en- 


4 


THE DILEMMA. 


15 


conraged yon, you would tell me next you would find great happi- 
ness in marrying me yourself.” 

“I should indeed,” said Pelham, earnestly, ‘‘but, unfortunately, I 
am well aware I am beneath your notice.” 

(“Oh, traitor!” murmured Clarissa.) 

“You are a humbug,” said Miss Jemima, smiling grimly; and 
Pelham, having handed her courteously into the fossil remains of 
the family conveyance, went back to the library. 

“ 'And so I won my Genevieve — my bright, my beauteous 
bride,’” he quoted, gayly, entering excitedly, and flinging the com- 
promising letter to the two old gentlemen, who grabbed it with a 
thankful sigh. 

And then he took Clarissa in his arms and kissed her boldly iin- ^ 
der the very noses of the scandalized old bachelors; while Clarissa 
blushed generously until she was all aglow as the heart of a sum- 
mer rose, though none the less did she return the kiss with heartfelt 
interest. 

“Never say I won’t make my fortune at the bar, uncle,’’ Pelham 
said, laughing. “To-day I have pleaded and won a cause that you 
at least considered hopeless. Clarissa, I shall make a fortune for 
you yet.” 

“No need, my boy, no need,” said Sir James, coming forward. 
“Henceforth the Park is yours. I have had enough of matrimony." 

“And so have I,” said Mr. Blount, who still looked pensive, 
“Clarissa, the Manor is yours.” 

THE END. 









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CLARISSA’S CHOICE. 

BY THE ^^DUCHESS/' 


' **Some griefs are med’cinable.” — Cytnbeline. 

It is growing dusk. The fire in the library, although the time is 
early in June, is burning briskly. A greyhound, a very handsome 
specimen of its kind, lies sleeping on the hearth-rug. There is a 
general air of comfort in all the surroundings, yet Mr. Dugdale — 
whose admiration for the country is not unrestrained, and who has 
come down to his neglected estate only because a long-forgotten 
sense of duty and a new steward have called him — is sitting with 
his hands before him, wondering, in a melancholy fashion, what on 
earth he is going to do with himself for the next month. 

If, he soliloquizes, he even knew any one in the county! Of 
course they will all call, the Katlins especially, but new acquaint- 
ances are such a bore. And dinners where French cooks are 
unknown — pah ! He doesn’t know a tenant upon his^ estate, or 
a landlord in the district, except old Major Hyde, who probably 
would be considered unendurable in town. He wonders, vaguely, 
what Thistleton is doing now, and Dunmore, and ail that lot; per- 
haps — 

lady wishes to see you, sir,” says Hickson, speaking in a 
respectful undertone from the door-way. 

‘T sincerely hopeno^ Hickson,” responds his master, lazily, with- 
out turning his head. “I really couldn’t, you know. I have came 
down here, against my will, partly to escape all that kind of thing. 
And, having sacrificed myself, I insist on quiet.” 

‘^She says, sir 

‘T know all about it,” with an impatient gesture; *‘just say I am 
ill. dying, dead, hurled, — anything, only send her away.” 

*T beg your pardon, sir,” with an apologetic cough, — “but she 
seems so urgent; and I could not possibly take it upon myself todis- 
fiaisa the lady in question. I believe you would not wish it, sir, if ” 


2 


CLARISSA^S CHOICE. 


‘‘You have evidently made up your mind I shall recieve her/’— 
resignedly: “there is, therefore, nothing for it but to submit. I am 
incapable of argument under my present depressing circumstances. 
Is she” — desperately — “a woman or a lady, Hickson?” 

“A lady, sir; quite the lady.” 

“Ah! — old or young?” 

“Not old, sir; and not too young either.” 

“Neither old nor young. That generally means forty. Is she 
forty?” 

‘’Dear me, no, sir; nothing of the kind. I beg pardon, sir, I 
merely meant to imply she was a good deal more than eighteen.” 

“You are invaluable, Hickson; I have always said it” — with a 
flash of admiration. “Show her in.” 

“Another of the personal begging-letter sort,” says Mr. Dugdale 
to himself, with a meek shrug, unlocking a drawer that contains 
money. “Better have it ready; the only thing 1 know of to get rid 
of them in a hurry.” Sinking back in his chair, he puts on his 
most miserable air, and prepares for an ignominious defeat. 

There is some slight delay: then the faint rustle of a woman’s 
skirts, a word or so from the admirable Hickson, who then throws 
wide the door, and announces “Miss Carew,” in his usual well-bred 
monotone. 

Dugdale, rising from his seat with some precipitancy, makes her 
a deferential bow. There is extreme respect, though a good deal of 
irrepressible surprise, in his manner as his eyes meet hers. 

She is young, — about three-and-twenty — very slender, very excel- 
lently formed, of middle height, and extremely pretty. Her eyes 
are a clear, dark gray; her light brown hair is covered by a large 
hat, trimmed handsomely with feathers; a gray gown fits her 
rounded figure to perfection; her hands are incased in irreproach- 
able gloves. Dugdale, as he looks at her, repents him of the “beg- 
ging-letter” idea, arid, at the bare remembrance of it, colors slightly. 
So does his visitor, though from far different motives. 

“I must ask you to pardon this intrusion,” she says, in a low tone, 
though perfectly distinct and full of dignity and sweetness. ‘T 
would not have come myself, but my brother is quite an invalid, 
suffering from an accident, and it was necessary that one of us 
should see you. When we heard you were returning to town again 
so soon, it frightened us into action.” 

“I do not return to London for a month.” 


CLARISSA^S CHOICE. 3 

^Ijvhel r ’ nth suppressed chagrin. “We were told you intended 
tO']>/"rrow, or next day. Had I known the truth ” 

“Pray s't down,” says Hugdale, courteously handing her a chair, 
“and let ma know what I can do for you.” 

“1 shoidd have introduced myself,” she says, with a faint smile. 
“My brother and I are your tenants, Mr. Dugdale, and have I think, 
some slight claim on your forbearance. The place — Weston Lodge; 
you know it? — has been in the possession of our family for years. 
First, my grandfather had it from grandfather ; then my father 

had it; now my brother has it; but our lease has expired.” She 
pauses. 

“You make me feel ashamed that I know so little of my tenants, 
or their wishes or concerns,” he says. “I know, indeed, nothing of 
the neighborhood. My living so much abroad is my only excuse. 
But that my late steward, poor fellow, died, and that the new man 
insisted on my presence here for a few weeks, I should not be in this 
house now. Yes, you want a new lease; is that it?” 

“That is it,” — with a glance of surprise at his evident indifference 
to, or ignorance of, all that has been going on of late. “The ques- 
tion is, shall we get it? The new man you speak of — Graham — has, 
I think, advised you to the contrary. He wishes to take our farm 
and incorporate it with the fields that lie beyond it, and let it all 
out at a higher value. Of course we can retain the house, but with- 
out the land it is useless to us, as my brother' is fond of farming. 
We are willing you should raise our rent; we would gladly take all 
those fields I speak of, that stretch to the south of us, but, unfortu- 
liately, just now we cannot. I thought, if I were to ask you, you 
would |»erhaps reconsider your steward’s advice, and let us keep our 
home.'' 

The sweet voice trembles ever such a little, the gray eyes fall, the 
little delicately-gloved hand taps nervously upon the table near her. 

“Have you spoken to Graham?” asks Dugdale, who, just at this 
moment, could have soundly rated his over-zealous manager. 

“No. We thought it better to see you, yourself. Will you think 
of it?” She raises her eyes again and regards him earnestly, en- 
treatingly. “To me it would not so much matter,” she adds gently, 
“but my brother — his heart is in the place; he has been delicate of 
late, and all this anxiety preys upon him and retards his recovery. 
We have been good tenants; I would ask you not to dispossess us.” 

“1 shall speak to Graham to-morrow. Pray do not disturb your- 


4 


CLARISSA^S CHOICE, 


1 


self about it; I promise you/’ says Mr. Dugdale, who is singularly 
pliable where beauty pleads, ‘ ‘you shall keep your home. Nobody 
shall dispossess you.” 

“How shall I thank you!” exclaims she, with grateful warmth, 
rising. Tears of emotion shine in her dark eyes. “I hardly dared 
hope when I came, and now” — she pauses, and again a smile curves 
her lips — “I can go back to George and make him happy.” 

‘•[t makes yourself happy too, I trust?” 

A little shadow falls into Miss Carew’s eyes. They droop. 
“Thank you, — yes,” she answers, but there is a faint weariness, a 
curious pain discernible in her tone. 

She bows slightly, and turns to the door. 

“Let me see you to your” — “carriage” he is going to say, but hesi- 
tates. She certainly looks like a woman who should have carriages 
at her disposal, but he remembers hearing from Graham that Wes- 
ton is but a small place, and checks himself. 

“Yes; I drove over,” she says, quietly. And then he follows her 
to the hall-door steps, and sees there waiting for her a tiny phaeton, 
a tiny pony, and a groom holding its head. All is well appointed, 
and, though small, perfect. 

Miss Carew gives lier hand to Dugdale, and steps into the phaeton ; 
the groom springs in behind, and h*ands his mistress the reins; she 
turns and bestows upon her landlord a smile, short though exceed- 
ingly sweet, and in another minute pony, tiger, lady, and all have 
disa[){)eared down the avenue. 

He, left standing upon the gravel, watches her retreat, until dis- 
tance* lias indeed swallowed up all traces of her, and as he looks he 
muses. 

What a sad little face she had, but how expressive! what sweet- 
ness in the eyes! Yes, beyond doubt it all lay in her eyes; there 
wasn't much to speak of in the rest of her features, except her 
mouth, which was charming; but there was certainly a fascination 
in her eyes. What did Graham mean by creating such confusion, 
all about a paltry few pounds a year more or less? It was most 
ofticious of him. 

After all, a fellow ou^t to come down and see about his tenants 
every now and then, and consult their wishes, and see after their 

‘‘Well, hngdale, my boy, and how are you?” says a mellow voice 
behind him, and turning, he beholds the major. 

Hyde, 1 am uncommonly glad to see you !” exclaims he, 


s 


CLARISSA'S CHOICE. 

% 

brightening, and telling the honest truth. Pjven Hyde, old-fash- 
ioned as he is, brings a welcome with him, being, as it were, a 
breath from the world of town. 

“Thank you. Heard of your arrival, and just dropped down to 
get a look at you and ask you to dine to-morrow night. Know how 
slow you must find it vegetating in the wilderness. 1 came through 
the park, and just saw Miss Carew driving away. IVlonstrons pretty 
girl, I take it. Came about the lease, eh! You must give her her 
own way there, Dugdale; you must indeed, you know,” says the 
kindly major. 

‘H have given it,” says Dugdale. 

“Glad of it, — glad of it. The only right thing to do. 1 might 
have known she would get no refusal from you. Beauty in distress, 
my boy, is all-powerful, eh! You have nothing that can toucdi on 
her this season; come now,” says the ancient hero, with an airy 
laugh that still retained all the freshness of nineteen. “1 lay you 
anything you like you haven’t seen a prettier girl this year.” 

“Yes, 1 have,” laughing, — “but few so — so — haunting. T like 
gray eyes. Come in and dine with me Hvde; it will be a charity, 
and may perhaps save me from suicide; I can’t stand my own com- 
pany.” 

“I shall be delighted,” says the major, who, next to having some 
one to dine with him, likes best to dine with some one. He is fond 
of society and young men, and is especially fond of Dngdah*. 

As they lounge through the gardens enjoying a cigar before dinner, 
the major grows communicative and relates many things. Touch- 
ing on the Carews, he finds himself encouraged by his host, and forth- 
with enlarges on the topic. • 

“There is only she and George,” says he, “and they are (piite de- 
voted; thinks there is nobody like George, and A/? thinks the same 
about Clarissa, and I quite agree with him.” 

You seem rather epris there,” says Dugdale, smiling. “George, 
as you call him, is ill, is he not?” 

“Knocked himself to bits last winter, out hunting. Ribs, leg, 
head, all went to smash, and even now he is only slowly recovering. 
No doubt he will pluck up in a hurry, now this lease worry is at an 
end, but at one time I confess I thought he was done for. That 
poor child, Clarissa, was quite ill, between grief and nursing.” 

“Ah! That is what makes her look so sad, 1 suppose.” 

“Well, no, — not altogether,” — mysteriously. 


6 


CL.4A'/SSA'S CHOICE. 


r 

“Anything more?’’ — turning sharply ; “not a dtjappointraent in 
love, surely? It is an impertinence even to imagine ir.” 

“I may as well tell you all about it,” says old H/de, who adores 
the sound of his own voice, and is beginning to forijoy himself in- 
tensely. “All the world here knows the story : so, as you are sure to 
hear it from some quarter sooner or later, I sha'n’t be breaking con- 
fidence by telling you. And you may as well hear a true version of 
it. You made a good guess; it was an unliappy love-affair.” 

••lie bad bad taste, whoever he was,” says Dugdale, with a faint- 
ly unpleasant ring in his tone. He has already begun to feel an in- 
terest in his lovely tenant, and when a man feels an interest in a wo- 
man, however slight, he takes it badly when he is told she, in her 
turn, has felt an interest in some foreign quarter. 

“You know Sir Wilfred Haughton? Well, he was the man. 
They were engaged to be married about three years ago; everything 
was arranged ; never was there a fellow so much in love as we thought, 
when suddenly a cousin of Clarissa’s came on the scene. A pretty 
girl, I am bound to say, but bad, sir, bad to the heart’s core. There 
was something fetching about her, I suppose, because every man in 
the neighborhood (except myself, Dugdale, I am proud to say) made 
an ass of himself about her. But she laid her plans cleverly, and 
never ceased till she had wiled flaughton from his allegiance, and I 
verily believe, broke Clarissa’s heart. She has never held up her 
head since. Fairly crushed she was, and all for a most unworthy ob- 
ject, as I cannot help thinking him.” 

“You put it mildly. A man who could be guilty of such an act 
must be termed an uraitigated blackguard,” says Dugdale, calmly, 
^ knocking the ash off his cigar. 

“So I think. But the cream of' the joke is to follow. Madam 
Violet having made her little game, and cajoled Haughton to the to[) 
of her bent, coolly threw him over at the last moment, and married 
a city man with no birth to mention, but unlimited coin.” 

“Served him right,” — viciously. “I knew him slightly, but can’t 
say 1 fancied him ; weak, it seemed to me, and self-opinionated. He 
has been abroad for some time.” 

“Pit of the spleens. They say he is coming home at the end of 
the month ; so I daresay he has got over it.” 

“How will Miss Carew like his being in the neighborhood again?” 

“She is very game,” says the major; “proud, you know, and all: 
she won’t show what she really feels. Perhaps his coming will cure 


CLARISSA^S CHOICE, 


1 


her effectually, and settle matters forever.” 

‘•You mean, she will probably accept him a second time?” 

'^Accept him! Nonsense, sir! she will reject him, and that with 
scorn! — with scornT says the major, flushing with indignation. 

A month renders the Carews very intimate with their landlord, — 
which is hardly to bo wondered at, as scarcely a day passes without 
his coming to Weston, avowedly to sit with George, but in reality 
to see Clarissa. 

Now, he does not even care to conceal from himself the fact that 
his early admiration for her has deepened into love. Yet his attach- 
ment causes him only unhappiness, having in it all the elements of 
disappointment to come, Clarissa apparently being utterly indiffer- 
ent to it. She is very sweet, very gentle, and treats him with all the 
kind familarity of a sister, but even he cannot deceive himself into 
the belief that there is anything sentimental in her regard. 

One evening toward the close of this month Dugdale happens to 
be dining at the lodge. He has dined there often of late, young 
Carew having taken an enormous fancy to him, being indeed almost 
low spirited when he is out of his sight. All through dinner Clarissa 
has been singulrily distraite and meditative; there is a far-off look 
in her clear gray eyes, her lover is quick to mark. Strolling in the 
garden with her, later on, through the warm, sweet, wooing July 
air, he suddenly breaks the long silence by saying, — 

“How quiet you are this evening! Has anything vexed you — 
disturbed you?” 

“Have 1 betrayed myself even to you?” she says, with a smile, 
and a rare faint blush. “No — yes — I confess it; I should not be 
disturbed, but I am; in that lies my self-contempt. It makes me 
angry with myself to know I am annoyed, but I cannot help it. I 
heard to-day Sir Wilfred Haughton is coming home to-morrow!” 
Her voice has fallen slightly. 

“Yes, I know.” He has turned his face away from hers. 

“Of course you have heard all that old story, ’’she says, quite 
calmly, but with another blush so vivid as to bring tears to her 
eyes. “It seems very old now. Every one knows it; that thought 
was bitter to me just at first, but now I scarcely seem to mind it, 
and you are so good a friend I can speak to you about it. It is very 
disheartening, is it not” — with a little constrained laugh — “that 
after all one’s inward lectures, one should find one’s self as far 
from indifference as ever?” 


8 


CLARISSA^ S CHOICE. 


Mistaking her meaning altogether, he winces perceptibly. 

“Does his coming distress you?’^ 

“Yes,” slowly — “it distresses me; and yet I cannot say whether 
it makes me glad or sorry. After all, he was. an old friend before 
— before anything foolish occurred between us. 1 do not forget that. ” 

“No doubt he has, long ere this, repented his crowning — nay, his 
only — act of folly.” They have got down to the wicket-gate by 
his time, that leads into the haggard, and he, leaning his arms 
upon it, continues, always with his eyes turned from hers: “What 
if he is coming home because the first and best love is still strong 
within him? It may be that he is coming to gain forgiveness.” 

“Oh, no, /io/” — shrinking; “I hope not. That would be terrible. 
1 hope not! But” — with an effort — “it is impossible.” 

“I think it so utterly possible, that I am almost sure of it,” says 
Dugdale, who takes a savage pleasure in piling up his own agony. 
“No man, under the circumstances, would elect to come to the place 
again, unless with such an object.” 

“You frighten me,” she says; and then she sighs, and brushes 
back her soft hair impatiently from her temples. “Would you act 
so in such a case?” she asks, presently, in a slow, dreamy tone. 

Then he turns to look at her, and their eyes meet. The tender 
silence of coming night is all around. The faint, melodious lowing 
of the oxen in the far-off meadows alone breaks the stillness of the 
evening that is dying with such lingering sweetness. 

“I cannot answer that question,” returns he, a little unsteadily: 
“1 could not picture myself in such a case. Had I dared to love 
you, it would have been with such a love as- would have lasted to 
my dying day!” 

Silence again. She has grown very pale, and the hand that tri- 
fles with the huge bunch of crimson roses so lately plucked is trem- 
bling slightly. The cows are coming slowly towards them through 
the cool deep grass: the birds, high over their heads, are twittering 
drowsily a last good-night; George’s voice from the verandah calls 
to them to return. 

“You are thinking of the past?” says Dugdale, hurriedly, taking 
one of the roses from her. 

“Yes — and of the future,” replies she, in a troubled tone. 

, “Clarissa! you still love him?” 

“How shall I tell^” returns she, with a touch of passion. “I 
have so Jong brooded over my unhajjpy story — so often told myself 


CLARISSA^ S CHOICE. 


9 

1 shall never again ” She pauses abruptly. want to see 

him,” she says, after a slight hesitation. 

“Naturally,” with some bitterness. 

“No, you mistake. I want to see him” — slowly — ^“because, when 
Ido — on the mstant — I shall know.” 

“Know what?” — eagerly. 

“My own heart, ’’replies she, somewhat sadly. 

Three days later, walking along the quiet road that leads to Wes- 
ton, Clive Dugdale comes upon Clarissa and a stranger, evidently in 
earnest conversation. Even from the distance he can see the 
stranger is Sir Wilfred Haughton, and that he and Clarissa are oji 
friendly terms. It is plainly, however, a chance encounter, because 
Haughton’s horse is standing beside him, and even as Dugdale, wiih 
a beating heart, marks all these facts, they shake hands, and Haugli- 
ton, mounting again, rides briskly away. 

As Dugdale comes up with her, Clarissa turns gladly to greet 
him, with a bright smile. Her face is delicately flushed ; there is 
an unwonted brilliancy in her eyes: she is altogether a changed, and 
even a lovelier Clarissa than usual. 

“That was Sir Wilfred?” remarks he, superfluously, regarding her 
curiously, jealously. 

“Yes,” — still smiling. 

“Your very first meeting with him has wrought a wonderful 
change in your appearance. You are pleased?” 

“It was not our first meeting. Last evening he called to see us 
just after you had left. Had you remained to dinner, as George 
and I wished, you would have met him.” 

“Should I? Thanks. The loss is not irreparable. I would 
rather see George and you when alone. But you have not yet answered 
me; though indeed I scarcely need an answer when I look at you. 
You are brighter, more radiant, than I have ever yet seen you. You 
were pleased to see him ?” 

^^VeryT — emphatically. “Why not? After all, as I told you. 
he is an old friend : I hardly remember the time I did not know 
him.” 

“And,” bending a little to look into her eyes, which meet his 
frankly, “you now — IcnowT^ 

“Yes, now I ‘know’ ” returns she, with a quiet though very ixk- 
tense satisfaction. 


lo CLARISSA'S CHOICE. 

“And you are quite happy?” There is a shade upon his face that 
grows deeper every second. She, having averted her eyes, fails to 
see it. 

•‘Very happy,” she answers, quietly. “Happier than I have been 
for three full years. A long time, is it not?” she asks, a little wist- 
fully. « 

“Yes. I congratulate you,”— in a somewhat forced tone. They 
have reached the entrance to Weston; and he now puts out his 
hand to say good-by. 

‘ ‘ Y ou will come in ?” — surprised. 

“Not to-day, thank you.” 

“Oh, dOf with open disappointment, “George will be so grieved 
it you do not.” 

“George must excuse me to-day; I cannot go in now,” he says, 
and, raising his hat, walks determinedly away. 

His heart is filled to overfiowing with bitterness and sad forebod- 
ings. Is it, indeed, all over? Can his sweet dreams and happy 
thoughts have met with such a cruel death? Again he sees her 
lovely face as she turned it to greet him, fiushed with content and 
gladness. Of course the blush had been for Haughton; already her 
) 30 or wounded heart has found comfort in the very nearness of the 
beloved. 

Pshaw! why dwell upon the inevitable, like a love-sick girl? He 
will throw up the whole business, leave for London in the morning, 
and try in absence to forget. 

But when the morning comes he lingers. A faint hope — that is 
almost despair, so closely does it border on it — holds him still in 
bondage, and compels him to stay on and witness the final scene in 
this small drama. 

But at the end of the second month even this faint star of hope 
has been drowned in the giant flood of despair. He has no longer 
any sustaining doubts. Day by day, meeting his rival at Weston, 
he notes Clarissa’s kindly manner towards him, the frank warmth 
of her look and tones. 

As for himself, her demeanor towards him has completely changed. 
It seems to him as though now she purposely avoids his society 
and shrinks from any tete-a-tete chance may throw in his 
way. And yet — with an obstinacy that shocks even himself — there 
are moments when he cannot bring himself to believe he is altogether 
hateful to her. A certain softness at times, a sudden blush, a sur- 


CLARISSA^^ CHOICE, it 

f>riv< 5 e(l glance now and again, make him persuade himself, against 
his common sense, she still bears for him- some of her ancient 
friendship. 

One afternoon, walking along the road to Weston, he encounters 
the major coming towards him from a side-walk that branches co- 
wards the west and leads to Uplands, where dwell the Adairs. They 
shake hands, but, even at the moment of meeting, Dugdale becomes 
aware that there is an unmistakable cloud upon the major’s usually 
urbane brow. 

“You have been to Uplands?” says Dugdale, because he has 
nothing else to say, and is too much the property of melancholy to 
care to make conversation. 

“Yes,” — absently; “the old lady is ill again. But tell me, Clive, 
is it true what I have heard there, that Clarissa Carew is going to 
marry that fellow Haughton?” 

"'Have you heard it?” asks Dugdale, wincing. 

“Yes; the Adairs are full of it. They say it is all settled, and 
that they are to be married immediately. My dear boy,” says the 
major, raising his hat to wipe his forehead, “it can't be true.” 

“It may be true,” says Clive, gloomily. He is drawing aimless 
strokes with his stick upon the dusty road, and is feeling distinctly 
miserable. 

“It may, sir! — what do you mean by that?” demands the major, 
irascibly. “I tell you it shan't! it is monstrous! What! a woman 
like that to throw herself away upon a worthless fellow, and one 
who has treated her so infamously in the past! I tell you I won’t 
hoar of it. I thought Clarissa had more pride.” 

“And yet I do not think she is wanting in pride,” says Dugdale. 

“I don’t know what you call it, but I, for one, wouldn’t have be- 
lieved it of her,” says gld Hyde, growing slightly incoherent. “1 
shall speak to her, and, if possible, prevent it. If I were a* young 
man, like you, Dugdale, I should make love to her myself, propose 
to her, and marry her under his very nose, rather than let such a 
sacrifice take place. But the young menpf the present day,” says 
the major, disgustedly, “are abominably wanting in both taste and 
feeling.” 

“I wish I could agree with you,” says poor Clive, sadly. 

“As no one else will interfere, I shall. Nothing shall prevent 
me. Her father and I were old cronies, and I shan’t stay by and 
see his girl make such a fatal mistake without uttering a word of 


12 CLAklS.U':< CHOICE, 

warning. I must now go home and scribble a letter or two for the 
post, and after that 1 shall walk np straight to Weston and ask her 
what she means. 

“I think T wouldn’t, if I were yon,” Dngdale says, mildly. 

“But 1 shall, sir! Don’t talk to me! Pouf! Do you think the 
anger of the prettiest woman in Europe could turn me. from my 
duty? Never r says the major, proudly. 

Dugdale half smiles as they part company, and he continues his 
way to Weston. The hall door, as usual, stands wide open during 
the glorious August weather, and, making his way to the study, 
where young Carew generally sits, he enters, unannounced. 

At the door-way he stands motionless a moment, seeing Carew in 
earnest conversation with Sir Wilfred Haughton. Hearing him, 
they both look up, and Carew’s expression changes from cold dis- 
approbation to quick distress. 

‘•It is only Dugdale,” says Haughton, with a curious gleam in his 
dark eyes, and a certain maddening sense of triumph in his slow 
deliberate tones. “Xo, do not go away, Dugdale; you are a wel- 
come friend here, and I have no desire to conceal from you the 
reason of my presence here to-day. I have come to ask Miss Carew’s 
hand in marriage.” 

Dugdale pales visably, and his brows contract; otherwise he sup- 
presses all outward symptoms of emotion. Then suddenly a wild 
determination to enter the lists himself, to declare aloud his affec- 
tion for her, if only to let her see how well, though silently, 
she has been beloved, takes posssession of him. Almost without 
allowing time for reflection, he turns to Carew, and says, with 
forced composure, — 

“I too have come to Weston to-day, bound on the same errand. I 
love your sister, Carew, and would ask her to marry me. Let her 
choose between us.” 

George rises slowly. He is still weak, and finds a difficulty in 
sudden movements ; a look of perplexity and discomfort pervades 
his handsome face; he trifles nervously with a paper knife that lies 
beneath his hand. 

“Tou distress me,” he says, at length addressing both the suitors. 
“I hardly know what to say. Of course I shall inform my sister of 
the honor you have both done her, and — and — you must abide by 
her decision. But it grieves me to know that one of yon — must ” 

He pauses, and unconsciously, in his embarrassment, fixes his eyes 


CLARISSA CHOICE. 


I 


upon Dugdale. Clive groans inwardly: to him it is a simple matter, 
the translation of that regretful look, the finishing of that broken 
sentence. “One of you must go to the wall ; and you, Dugdale, are 
the man.” So he reads it. The brother, knowing well the sister’s 
feelings, had thought kindly to give him gentle warning of what 
was sui:ely in store for him. That glance was an ill omen! Well, 
well! He throws up his head in angry defiance of cruel fate, and 
draws his breath a little hard. 

At this moment a light and well-known step crossing the hall out- 
side makes itself heard. It comes nearer; the door is thrown open, 
and Clarissa, fresh and sweet as the perfumed flowers in her hands, 
stands upon the threshold. 

“Why, what a solemn conclave,” she says jestingly. “What 
long, long faces! But that the silence of the grave seems to reign, 

I should say you were all indulging in a battle royal. What is it, 
George?” — laying her hand upon his shoulder with a soft caressing 
touch. 

Taking down the hand, Carew holds it closely in his own and re- 
gards her with silent scrutiny for a full minute. Then, glancing at 
the two men, he says as though decided, — 

“My sister is here; she shall speak for herself. Clarissa, Sir Wil- 
fred Haughton and Clive Dugdale wish to tell you — that they — 
love you ; they have come this afternoon to ask your hand in mar- 
riage. It is for you to either refuse them both — or — make your choice 
between them.” 

Jle has spoken disjointedly, but to the purpose. Clarissa, growing 
white as the lilies in her trembling fingers, shrinks away from him, 
and, letting her flowers fall, covers her face with her hands. 

“Oh, why have you done this?” cries she: “it is terrible — it is 
cruel ” 

“No, it is the wisest course,” whispers he, hurriedly. “It will 
end at once all doubt and suspense. Believe me, it is better so, — 
and kinder.” 

Looking up, she glances first at Sir Wilfred, who is evidently anx- 
ious, but, perhaps, a little too assured, then timidly at Dugdale, 
who is rather in the background, with his head bent downwards 
and his arms crossed upon his breast. 

Feeling the intensity of her regard, he raises his head, and meets • 
her gaze full. In his eyes there is a world of sorrowing, a passion- 
ate regret, a dumb agony, sad through its hopeless longing. 


H CLA/^/SS.VS CHOICE. 

'‘Clarissa!’* says Haughtou, eiitreatiiigly, attempting to take hef 
hand. 

“No, noH she exclaims, hastily, waving him back, her heart 
beating painfully. Then, “Clive, will you not speak to me?” she 
says, moving a step or two in his direction. 

The effect is electric. At her words Dugdale starts violently, the 
sadness disappears, and in its place a great gleam of joy rises and 
illumines his face. Yet even now he hardly dares believe in his own 
good fortune. 

Going up to her, he imprisons her hands, and asks, in a voice so 
changed she scarcely knows it to be his, — 

“Am I your choice?” 

“Yes,”— faintly. 

“You love me, Clarissa?” — almost vehemently. 

“Yes,” returns she, again. And then, overcome by her emotion 
and the situation generally, she bursts into tears; whereupon Clive, 
unmindful of her brother’s presence or that of his disconcerted rival, 
catches her in his arras, and with a sob she lays her head upon his 
breast. 

Leaving Weston about two hours later, he has just reached the 
entrance gate, when he finds himself, for the second time to-day, 
face to face with the valiant major, evidently bent on slaughter. 

“You see 1 Have kept my word,” says this warrior, fiercely. “I 
am not to be frightened, even by a frownfrom Venus! I have come 
to reason with Clarissa about this talked-of engagement.” 

“There is no need. I can tell you all about it.” 

“Well?” — impatiently. 

“It is only too true. She is going to be married!” 

“And who, pray told you that pretty piece of news?” 

“I had itfromherown lips.” 

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the major, staggered; then 
plucking up courage again, he advances a step. “All the more 
cause why I should now interfere,” he says, with much determina- 
tion. 

“I am afraid it will be too late. She and he seem very much at- 
tached to each other. I am almost sure she will not give him up. 

“She will when I prove to her what a despicable scoundrel he is, 
and open her eyes a bit about his doings in London.” 

“Oh, major? that I should live to hear you say such things!” 


15 


CLARISSA^S CHOICE. 

^^Saij them! I liave said them a thousaiid times, and I shall say 
them again. I tell you this man she is bent on marrying is a vil- 
lain of the deepest dye!” 

Dugdale laughs. 

THE END. 


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“KRIN.” 


BY THE ^^DUCHESS.’* 


Out of the blazing summer sunshine into the r^ooi room comes 
Krin, with her waving masses of chestnut hair as untidy as usual, 
her lips warm and parted. Her muslin dress ot pale azure is slight- 
ly crumpled, while two dark stains, that shine conspicuously upon 
it, betray her visit to the strawberry-bed. 

“Corinna, my dear I” protests her mother, perfectly aghast at her 
appearance. 

“Yes, darling?” says Krin, interrogatively, and glances suspic- 
iously up and down her attire until she too descries the fatal marks, 
when slie blushes the daintiest crimson. 

“Where have you been?” Mrs. Crofton goes on, when she has re- 
covered breath, “and what have you been doing? Your hair is all 

over your head, and your dress but let me introduce you to your 

cousin. Lord Rowden, who has come to spend a few days with us.” 

Phoebus Apollo has been making free with Krin’s adorable eyes to 
such an extent that up to this the drawing-room has appeared to her 
immersed in semi-darkness and she has remained totally unaware of 
the stranger’s presence. Now, indeed, with a faint start, she turns, 
and, peering through the imaginary mist, sees him standing on the 
hearth-rug, regarding her with amused scrutiny. He is a tall, fair 
young man, decidedly good-looking, with but a very slight tinge of 
the fashionable boredom about his face and figure. He has large inr. 
dolent gray eyes, a steady mouth and chin, and an irreproachable 
brown moustaclie. He has been watching Krin’s entrance and gen- 
eral deportment with languid interest up to the present moment, but 
now comes forward with something like eagerness in his manner to 
receive the hand she shyly offers him. 

He is about to speak to her, when Rhoda’s voice, sweet and rip- 
pling, rings in between them ; their hands part, and Corinna falls 
bttcik a step or two. 


2 


^^KRINr 


“Corinna,” says Rhoda, mild wonderment in her tone, where 
l)ave you been, dear? Your hair is utterly wild, and untidy hair is 
^o unbecoming to you.” 

Krin blushes — such a sudden sweet transition of color as it is, — 
and puts both hands to her head in a vain endeavor to subdue the 
refractory locks. With her arms so raised,- and the startled half- 
ashamed expression on her face, it occurs forcibly to Saxon how more 
t han pretty she is. 

“I often think,” he says, in his slow quiet way, “ how much more 
comfortable and— and natural a woman must feel when her hair 
defies fashion and falls into disgrace. I have rather a fancy for re- 
bellious hair myself.” 

Corinna, sinking into a chair, smiles involuntarily, and looks 
pleased. Rhoda smiles too, but does not look pleased. 

“Have you?” she says mildly. “I think eventually you would 
tire of it. It may be becoming to some styles, but ” 

“I think it is becoming to Corinna,^’ says Lord Rowden, still slow- 
ly, and in a tone that but for its calmness might be obstinate. 

“Well, perhaps so,” returns Rhoda, critically; “it certainly soft- 
ens her face, and — ah — how do you think the Hall looks, Saxon?” 

“I can hardly judge as yet. I got but a bare glimpse at it this 
morning: still it struck me as being considerably out of repair, — 
that is, great parts of it. It should have been more closely looked 
after, but my uncle was always careless. It appeared to be gloomy, 
too, and dark, almost unwholesome. Now, this place, Mrs. Crofton, 
is so infinitely more cheerful in every way.” 

“Moorlands is the prettiest place, perhaps,” says Mrs. Crofton, 
complacently, “if you can put a very ordinary house in comparison 
with a castle ; but then we have no grounds worth mentioning. Row- 
den Hall ought , to be the leading place in the county, Saxon. I 
should think a very little trouble would set it to rights.” 

“I wish you would try and help me,” says Saxon, suddenly.” If 
you would all come, and look it over, and suggest: a woman has so 
much better taste than a man.” 

“We shall be delighted,” says Rhoda prettily. “I have often 
longed to see the Hall and now my wish will be gratified.” 

“I have been all through it,” declares Corinna, speaking almost 
for the first time,” over and over again. 

“Have yon, really,” exclaims Saxon, with awakened interest, 
turning towards the window, where she sits half hidden, “D<j you 


^^KRIN. 


3 


mean t-o tell me yon ever cared to enter the dnll old place 

“It IS not dull to me. I love it. Old Simon and I are fast 
friends, and many hours have he and I passed together in the pic- 
ture gallery. I think I could tell you now the histories of every one 
of your ancestors.” 

“You are fond of pictures?” asks her cousin, thinking in his own 
mind what a charming picture she herself is making at the present 
moment, with her ruffled hair and large, short-seeing eyes, and mus- 
lin dress and strawberry stains, and all. 

“Very, — especially of old portraits. They seem to speak to me. 
Of all in your gallery 1 like little sad-eyed Millicent Rowden the 
best.” 

“I never knew of these expeditions of yours, Corinna,’* says Mrs. 
Crofton. “I don’t knc^w that you had any right to go there, my 
dear. The house was not open to any one. I fear, Saxon, she has 
been taking rather a liberty with you in your absence.” 

“A liberty!" repeats the young man, warmly; “nay, rather she has 
done me an honor. I shall like the old place better now I can im- 
agine her form flitting through it. How like a ghost you must have 
looked, Coriuna, moving through the closely-shuttered rooms, with 
only here and there a fleck of light to guide the way, and with so 
old a servitor behind! Were you not afraid some ghost more real 
would rise to challenge your approach?” 

“I am not nervous,” says Corinna, with a slight shake of her head, 
and a shadowy gleaming smile. 

A week, a fortnight, three weeks pass away, and still the slight 
repairs going on at the Hall do not complete themselves, or else 
Lord Rowden feels no disposition to quit his aunt’s comfortable 
quarters. 

Day after day he lingers, as though unwilling to tear himself 
away; and into the heart of the Hon. Alicia Crofton has entered 
the delicious thought that time alone is required to see her hand- 
some Rhoda installed mistress of Rowden Hall. This arrangement 
■w ould be in every way desirable, as though the income attached to 
Moorlands is sufficient to enable the family to keep up a showy 
establishment and every outward appearance of wealth, still it barely 
covers the yearly expenses, and leaves nothing wherewith to carry 
on a London campaign, or even a visit to those fashionable watering- 
places which eligibles are supposed to haunt. 

The girls, therefore, have nothing but their faces to depend on, 




4 

and such chances as the neighborhood may afford ; and certainly their 
cousin Rowden is by far the richest parti that has as yet come among 
them. Mrs. Crofton, seeing all this with painful distinctness, yet 
like the wise mother that she is, contents herself with watching the 
battle from afar, and shows no inclination to interfere or assist 
matters in any way beyond encouraging Saxon to make his stay 
with them last as long as possible. 

Meantime, July is drawing to a close, such a warm oppressive 
sultry July as has not been felt for many a year: and as the 
clock strikes four on one memorable afternoon Saxon strolls into 
the drawing-room at Moorlands. 

“I think I will go up and see how they are getting on above,” 
he says, indicating his own home by a lazy movement of the head. 
•‘I have not been there for some days now. And they want rousing.” 

“Then ride, my dear Saxon,” says Mrs. Crofton; ‘‘the heat is in- 
tolerable. ” 

‘•No, I shall walk. It is barely two miles from this, and wood 
for the most part. Oh for frost and snow!” says Saxon, smiling, 
and raising both arms indolently until his hands reach the back of 
his head. “Rhoda, how do you keep so provokingly cool!” 

“I don’t know,” answers Rhoda sweetly. “By keeping quiet, I 
suppose. If, instead of going for this long stupid walk, you would 
come and sit here in this shady room, you would soon learn the 
secret.” 

But Saxon will not see the pretty invitation. 

“I am too restless a being for such charming repose, “he says; 
“T must be always up and doing, and conscience tells me I should 
look more closely after my affairs. Good-by, Rhoda; keep mein 
your memory while I am absent from you.” 

“I will try,” murmurs Rhoda, tenderly, and with a friendly nod 
iny lord departs. 

Tie has not been gone five minutes when Krin enters the room, 
bright and animated. 

“Mamma, have you seen the peaches lately?” 

“No, dear.” 

“Then 1 can tell you they are really splendid. I have just been 
examining them, and they are such a size! I think MacDonnell is 
the best gardener we have ever had: don’t you?” 

“Yes, dear,” — sleepily. 

“And the grapes, — tt'ey will soon be ready for the table. I could 


hardly keep my hands off them to-day ; such a sweet delicate per-r 
fume, too, as they have spread all over the house!” 

“How you do run on!” says Rhoda, pettishly, “and the day so 
warm too! Do you never tire, I wonder? — do you never feel used- 
up, or languid?” 

“Never,” answers Krin, with a gay laugh. 

“Then I think it would be all the better if you did. A little lan- 
guor would be preferable to the hoydenish manner you affect. There 
is nothing so unpleasant as too great an exhibition of health in a 
woman.” 

“You will exhaust yourself if you say much more,” says Miss 
Krin, demurely. “Mamma, will you come out with me?” 

“No, my dear, it is too warm; and now Saxon is safely out of the 
way, T think I' shall enjoy a little doze.” 

“Where has Saxon gone?” 

“To the Hall, to see how the work there is progressing.” 

‘ ‘Oh ! I shall take a book and sit in the veranda, then : it will be 
cooler there.” 

So saying, she once more seizes the hat she had discarded, and, 
arming herself with a volume, retires from the room. Running 
down the stairs with her usual impetuosity, she almost precipitates 
herself into Saxon’s arms, who, to her surprise, she finds standing 
on the lowest step. 

‘•You here?” she cries. “Why, I thought you were at Rowden 
by this time.” 

“I got as far as your entrance gate, when I repented myself and 
came back for something: guess what it was.” 

“Your pipe?” 

“No; you. It is a delicious walk, and the sun is going down. 
We can go almostdhe entire way through the woods: so put on your 
hat and come.” 

Krin puts down lier book without a word, adjusts her hat, and 
cheerfully prepares to follow him. So, together, they pass out into 
t he glowing golden sunshine, and, taking the side avenue, escape 
the drawing-room windows, and are soon out of sight, — and alone. 

Through the hot parched grass, across a flowery lane, over a stile, 
they go, into the deep green woods. Their words are very few, but 
they saunter on contentedly side by side, and when the stile has 
been crossed, Saxon retains her hand in his, so that palm to palm 
they continue their way. Yet it cannot be said that he is making 


6 


**krin: 


love to her, as he does not so much as press the hand he holds, only 
keeping it always in the same firm clasp ; while Krin is conscious of 
nothing but that it is a blissful summer’s noon, and that in the sky 
above her not even one faintest leaden streak dims the deep ex- 
quisite blue. 

Before them, half hidden by the giant trees, rises a tower, old and 
ivy-clad. 

**That tower has always had a fascination for me,” says Krin, 
stopping suddenly to regard the old pile before her. ‘‘Who built 
it, and how long ago?” 

“Oh, hundreds of years, possibly.” 

“It must have been uncomfortable as a residence at the best of 
times, with all those great open slits for windows through which the 
wind must whistle. What is inside it, I wonder?” 

“Dust and spiders, I should say. Some day we will get the key 
from old Simon, and reconnoitre. By the bye, talk of somebody — 
here is old Simon. Simon, have you the key of this old place about 
you?” 

“Ay, master, — my lord, — I alius carries it here,” returns old 
Simon, diving into one of his numerous pockets, and producing a 
huge key, that is almost bright from constant friction. - “Will you 
be long here, master, my lord?” he goes on, wistfully, as he hands 
the key to Saxon. “I was on my way home, and 

“Then continue it,” says his master, kindly: “I will keep the key 
until we meet again. Do not let me delay you.” 

“I shall be up at the house again to-night wi’ a message; mayhap 
if you’re going there you would leave it wi’ Mrs. Mason for me,” 
says Simon, as though anxious to regain the treasure he is parting 
with for so short a time. 

“I will,” says Saxon, and, with mumbled thanks the old man 
shambles off through the woods towards his cottage, where his an- 
cient dame is faithfully awaiting him. 

Bowden turning the key in the massive lock, the tower door 
swings easily backwards, and they enter. Within, all is dark and 
gloomy, though a few threads of light stream down from the open- 
ings above, and there is not so much dust nor as many spiders a^s 
they had imagined. 

‘'Ugh! how dreary!” shivers Krin: and together they ascend the 
narrow winding stairs that lead into the only other room the tower 
contains— -a bare desolate apartment, void of all furniture beyond a 




1 


stone bench that comes out like a fixture from the wall. 

confess I am disappointed,” says Krin, laughing. ‘’‘Now, for 
what purpose was it built?” 

“I hardly know; not as a watch-tower, certainly, as it does not 
rise sufficiently high to betray the approach of foes. I suppose 
they must have thought it would look picturesque among the trees.” 

“I should like to put in windows, and oak chairs, and tables,” 
says Krin, reflectively: “it would be a charming place for tea in 

the summer, and ” A loud noise, followed by a decided click, 

interrupts her speech. “What is that?” she murmurs, faintly, 
alarmed. 

“The door closing, I think.” 

“Oh, is that all? 'How loud it sounded! Come, the place is un- 
canny: let us go on to the house.” 

But Saxon’s face is slightly clouded. 

“I hope the lock has not shot into its place,” he says, uneasily ; 
“it has that trick, I know, though I forgot all about it until now.” 

“Nonsense! do not let us imagine evil,” Krin exclaims, nervous- 
ly, running down the stone steps, while he quickly follows her. But 
when they reach the door they find it fastened and locked against 
them beyond all doubt — the key being on the outside. 

'^Now what is to be done, I should like to know?” asks Krin, 
with a white face and frightened eyes; “how are we to get out?” 

“I don’t know,” says Saxon, and then, the absurdity of the situa- 
tion striking him, he bursts into laughter, sudden and irrepress- 
ible. For a moment Krin disapproves this line of conduct, but 
presently — being young, and her own laughter ever near — she, too, 
gives in and joins heartily in his merriment, forgetful of the awful 
consequences. What will mamma say whein they arrive late for din- 
ner? How will proper Rhoda look? 

“Of coarse somebody will come directly to let us out,” she says, 
with conviction in her tone. 

“Of course. You remember old Simon said he would be back 
here again to-night, and night with him meant early evening.” 

“Then let us go up-stairs again, and wait for him above. It is so 
dismal .here.” 

But waiting does not bring him. An hour passes slowly away. 
The shadows grow longer and longer. 

“What o’clock is it now?” asks Krin, in a low tone, and for the 
hundredth time Saxon examines his watch. 




“A quarter to seven,” he answers, reluctantly. 

“Oh,” moans Krill, in a voice of anguish, “are we nevt,r to be re- 
leased? How shall I ever face mamma and Rhoda? I wish I had 
never seen this hateful tower! Why did you induce me to 
enter it?” 

The accusation conveyed in this speech is so unjust that for the 
moment Saxon is silent. 

“How can you say I induced you, Corinna?” he says, gravely, 
when he has recovered himself. “Did you not tell me you were 
most anxious to see the inside? When you said that^ what could I 
do but show it to you?” 

“Nevertheless it is all your fault ; but for you I would not be here.” 

^‘But for Simon, you mean, and your own desire.” 

“It was you opened the door,” she insists, pettishly, looking all 
the time like a beautiful spoiled child as she sits on the old stone 
bench, her head turned petulantly from liis gaze, her eyes watching 
through one of the openings in the wall for any chance passer- 
by. “Of course when you did so, I went in: who could have done 
otherwise? But there! where is the use of losing your temper 
about it? I am in a dreadful scrape, and I shall never be for- 
given, that is all.” 

“You need not make matters worse than they are,” says Rowden, 
gloomily; “you cannot be more upset about the whole affair than I 
am. But” — going over to one of the windows and staring down — ” 
even if I jumped out it would do you no good. The fall would cer- 
tainly stun me, if it did no worse; and to have me lying insensible 
out there would not help matters in the least.” 

“Do you suppose I want you to kill yourself?” says Krin, half-fright- 
ened; and again silence falls between them. 

Half-past seven. Half-past eight. The long summer’s evening 
is drawing to a close at last : it is growing positively dark. For the 
last hour not one word has been spoken by either of them. This 
slow torture has proved too much for Saxon. For the past ten 
minutes he has been revolving a wild idea in his brain, and with it 
before him is fast losing sight of all common sense. 

Not far from one of the open spaces in the wall that represent 
windows there stretches sideways the branch (ff a tree, sufficiently 
stout, indeed, should he be happy enough to reach it in a spring, to 
support his weight, but the chances are that he will not reach it. It 
is a terrible risk to run, — a risk in which failure means a severe ac- 


“A"yV/A".” 


9 


cident, if not instantaneous death ; but to Saxon's ov:er\Yrought feel- 
ings it appears preferable that he should suffer from some broken 
bones, than that Krin should have to endure the bitter reproaches 
that will be surely heaped upon her if they be discovered in their 
unsought imprisonment. Perhaps, too, even if he did come to the 
ground, he might not altogether lose consciousness; and if he could 
only manage to crawl to the door and turn that unlucky key, all 
might yet be well. It Has grown so late by this time that he has 
lost all hope of seeing any one come to the rescue; if matters be al- 
lowed to continue as they noware, it is more than probable they will 
have to spend the night in this detested tower, and that is not to be 
thought of for a moment; so 

“Saxon,” cries Krin, suddenly rising to her feet, ‘^why don’t you - 
speak? I shall go mad if this goes on much longer. Have you no 
plan, no idea? Oh, do something to get us out of this place!” 

She lays her hand upon his arm, and raises her face imploring to 
his. As he returns her gaze he sees two large miserable tears rise in 
her eyes and roll slowly down her pale cheeks. 

“Krin, Krin, don’t do that!” he exclaims, hurriedly. “lean, I 
ivill do something, but do not unnerve me. Forgive me before I go, 
child, for making you so unhappy.” 

“‘6^0,’” whispers Krin, shrinking from him. “Gro ivheref^ 

“Look, it is quite simple,” he says, leading her to the window and 
pointing to the sturdy branch; “I shall spring from here and catch 
that (I wonder I did not think of it before). I shall then descend, 
opeh the door for you, and set tliebird free.” 

“Oh, no, no!” she gasps, trying with both hands to draw him from 
the window. “It is not to be thought of. A’b one could do it. It 
would be certain death. You shall not go.” 

“Konsense, Krin! do not be foolish. I tell you I can and will do 
it. Come, look up, and wish me luck : in five minutes I shall have 
you laughing at your fears. Now go away from the window, and 
wait over there for me.” 

For a moment he hesitates, then, taking her face in both his hands, 
kisses her gently. A little latter he is standing on the stone para- 
pet that projects from the wall. There is a faint pause, followed by 
a slight rushing noise through the still air, a crackling of wood, and 
Krin, shuddering and half fainting, sinks back upon the friendly 
bench. 

L it five hours or five minutes, or a lifetime? Saxon’s voice rings 


10 ' 


‘‘A7?/.V. 


MiJdeiily in l^er ears, as thougli sounding through deep water; and, 
looking up, she finds liitn bending anxiously over her. 

“You silly child,” he says, clieerfully, “I do believe you faint- 
ed. Are you better now? Come, we can make our escape at last.” 

He laughs, and passing his arm around her, raises her to her feet. 
Mechanically she follows hiin to tlie top ol* the stairs, but there, even 
through the falling darkness, a deep rod stain upon his hand attracts 
her notice. 

“What is that?” she asks, nervously, stopping short; “is it blood? 
Oh, Saxon, you are hurt!” and this, added to all the previous excite- 
ment, overcoming her, she bursts into a passion of tears. 

“Corinna,” says Saxon, quietly, although his pulses are throb- 
bing somewhat wildly, “I declare 1 am ashamed of you. I thought 
you quite a plucky little girl, and see a mere scratch upsets you. 
I assure you I don’t even feel it. Come, remember how late it is.” 

The walk home is a very miserable one for Krin. All through 
the woods and fields she is haunted by tlie knowledge of wliat is 
before her, and visions of her mother’s wrath, mingled with Rhoda’s 
censures, uttered in the clear lady-like staccato she knows so well, 
rise up to torture her. When they reach the balcony that runs by 
the drawing-room windows they pause to look in and see who are 
the occupants of the room. The lamps are burning^ brightly, and at 
the farthest end sits Rhoda, peacefully reading. Mrs. Crofton also 
has a book before her, but her eyes do not rest upon it; her face is 
extremely pale, and there is an anxious terrified expression about it 
that speaks of unknown fears. Every now and then slie glances at 
tlie door as though expecting some one. 

“Shall I go in first,” whispers Saxon, as he sees his companion’s 
face of woe. 

“Oh. no, no! I would far rather go in alone. It will be better,” 
says Krin, who feels there is unpleasantness in store for her, and 
cannot bear that he should witness her disgrace. 

As she opens the drawing-room door, Mrs. Crofton looks up 
quickly, and, seeing Krin, draws a deep breath of relief. Then, 
fear having abandoned her heart, woman-like, she permits anger to 
enter it. 

“Where have you been, Corinna?” she cries, rising. “What do 
you mean by frightening us all to death like this? Do you know it 
is nearly ten o’clock? With whom have you been?” 

“With Saxon,” returns Corinna, tearfully. 


*^icrin:^ 


rt 


**Whatf^ Rhoda, with flashing eyes, her voice a little shrill. 

“With Sa:ton. We did not mean it ; we did not know. We went 
into tlie old tower, only for a moment, but the door closed l^hind 
us, and we could not get out until Saxon flung himself from the 
window.” She pauses breathless. 

‘‘Very nice, upon my word,” says Rhoda, her tone a little shriller: 
“a charming story, indeed ! Locked up with Lord Rowden in an 
old ruin until ten o’clock. I wonder what the county will say I”' 

“We could not help it,” says Krin, looking at her mother with 
imploring eyes: “it was nobody’s fault: we would have been there 
now but for Saxon.” 

“And pray, if it was so easy to leap from the window, why was it 
not done sooner?” 

“But it was not easy. He might have killed himself; and we 
hoped until the last that someone would come to release us. Mam- 
ma, why don’t you speak to me?” 

“It was most unfortunate,” says Mrs. Crofton fretfully. “I don’t 
know, I am sure, what is to be done. All the servants, of course, 
know of it, and Thompson has been out looking for you for the last 
two hours. It will be known far and near.” 

“It is more than unfortunate; it is disgraceful!” declares Rhoda. 
“From the beginning I have noticed your artful endeavors to entrap 
Saxon, but this is indeed the climax. You will not win your game, 
however, let me tell you that. No gentleman was ever yet gained 
by immodest and forward behavior.” 

“‘Immodest!’ Mamma, do you hear that?— do you hear what 
she says?” cries poor Krin, paling, and trembling beneath the chan- 
delier. “I tell you it was a mistake; it cpuld not be helped. 
Mamma speak to me.” 

“You had better go' to your room, Corinna, while I try and think 
calmly of this unhappy business,” says her mother, coldly, though 
in her heart of hearts she does not condemn her. 

Krin, with quivering lips, and one small shaking hand laid upon 
her bosom, turns, and makes her way. not to her room, but into 
the still 'iiight air. What has she done? What horrible things 
have been said to her! Can Saxon think as they do? Has she been 
been immodest,— forward? How unjust, how unbearable it all is! 
Oh ! what shall she do? For the second time this evening she bursts 
into a storm of tears. 

Somebody lays Ifls hand upon her atm. 


12 


^^KRINr 


“Darling, have they been so very bad to you?” says Saxon’s low 
caressing' voice. 

Krin’s effort to reply is lost amid her sobs 

“You should have let me face them first. What did they say to 
you?” 

“Oh, nothing, — that is, nothing in particular. Of course mamma 
was very angry ; she was frightened too, and she said so. That is 
all.” 

“I am sure something more than that must have been said to 
make you cry so bitterly. Tell me, Corinna; 1 have the right to 
know. What did your mother say?*’ 

' “It wasn’t mamma. It was Rhoda.” 

“Oh!” says Saxon, angrily, and then he mentions Rhoda’s name, 
and puts a word *before it that is not complimentary to Rhoda. 
“Don’t cry like that,” he goes on, presently, in a very tender tone, 
putting his arm round her, and pressing her head down upon his 
breast; “don’t, my pet: you are making me awfully unhappy. 
Corinna, be sensible, darling, and listen to what I am going to say. 
I want to ask you a question.” 

“What question?” — very drearily. 

“I could not ask it if you speak in that tone. Oh, Krin, can you 
not guess what it is I want to say? I love you, darling, with all my 
heart; I want to hear that you love me too.” 

Krin raises her head, and makes a desperate effort to escape ; but 
he holds her fast, and continues rapidly : 

“Listen to me, Krin. It maddens me to see you made miserable, 
as you are now ; I cannot bear it. Give me the right to look upon 
you as my promised wife, and I will protect you against the world. 
No one shall dare to say a cruel word to you. Sometimes, — I don’t 
know why— but sometimes 1 have thought of late that you— care for 
uie. . Oh, love, do not tell me I am presumptuous.” 

There is no answer to this tender appeal, but he fancies (is it 
fancy?) that she nestles a little closer to him. ^He tightens his arm 
around her, and whispers, softly,— 

“Say one word, Corinna, — only one, to make me happy.” 

But Corinna is a woman, and finds it impossible to express herself 
in so compact a form. 

“Are you quite sure that ?/oa love mef^ she asks, with anxious 
emphasis, lifting her eyes to his for a moment. 

** Quite sure. Must you ask that, darling? Don’t you know it? 




*3 


There is nothing in this wide world I would compare with you.” 

“That is how I feel towards you,” says Krin, innocently, with a 
little contented sigh. 

It is needless to relate what follows. Every one possessed of even a 
grain of sentiment will understand themselves. Of course they are 
perfectly happy, and of course Coriuna sheds a few more ttars. 
They are the last she weeps for many, many months. 

“Come,” says Saxon, with a laugh, “if you cry any more 1 shall 
think you are regretting your decision. You must stop now, or I 
shan’t answer, for the consequences. You are better now, !-o we 
will go in together, and make our peace with your mother.” 

Hand in hand they enter the drawing-room and find the atmos- 
phere decidedly cloudy. For the first time in her life Mrs. Crofton 
regards her kinsman with unsmiling eyes. 

“Oh, Saxon, you have returned,” she says, coldly. 

“Yes, I have returned to ask a great favor of you — the greatest 
favor you can bestow.” 

“A favor of mef ^ — with considerable dignity, while Rhoda in the 
background comprehends fully, and whitens with rage and disap- 
pointment. 

“Yes, indeed, so great that I hardly know to ask it.” He 
quits Krin’s side, and, going to her mother, takes her unresisting 
liand eagerly. “Mrs. Crofton, you will make me a present of Co- 
rinna?” 

There is a short pause, during which Mrs. Crofton draws breath 
and reviews the position. How utterly mistaken she has been all 
along! Well, if not Rhoda, it is at least Corinna. If blind to the 
charms of one daughter, it is because he is so infatuated by the 
graces of the other. The fact that he will be her son-in-law re- 
mains undisturbed, and if Mrs. Crofton bears a deeper affection for 
one of her children it is undoubtedly for Corinna. 

“You amaze me! I had no idea of this,” she says, at length, 
with perfect truthfulness. “I hardly know what to say, Saxon, but 
T hope with all my heart you will both be happy.” Her voice falters 
a little, and she holds out her disengaged hand to Krin. The giil, 
coming quickly to her side, throws her arms round her neck and 
kisses her warmly. * 

“You are not a bit angry now, mamma, are you?” she asks, with 
a bright sunny smile. 

“1 suppose I must forgive you now,” returns her mother, tapping 


^^KRINr 


H 

her cheek; “but you are a pair of naughty children, and succeeded 
in terrifying me more than I care to remember.’’ 

Saxon turns to Rhoda. and says: “Now you must wish us joy,” 
he exclaims, cheerfully. 

“I do, most sincerely. I wish you joy — of each other,” replies 
Rhoda, with the faintest possible pause. “Of course I saw from 
the very first how it would end, so 1 cannot imitate mamma’s 
surprise.” 

There is a certain flavor about this speech that, to say the least of 
it. is unpleasant. Every one seems to think it will be wisdom to 
refrain from addressing .her again. 

“Corinna, you are looking very pale,” says her mother, hastily: 
’‘all the excitement and fatigue has been too much for you. Bid us 
good-night, dear, and go to bed.” 

“Good-night,” says Krin. obediently, and as Saxon follow- her 
into the hall under pretense of getting her a candle, he whispers, 
fondly, “Are you perfectly happy, now, Corinna?” But Corinna 
. does not get time to answer that question — in words. 

THE END. 






THE PITY OF IT. 


BY THE ^‘DUCHESS.’’ 


''Death came with friendly care.” — C olbridgs. 

“How d’ye do, Mrs. Annesley?” said young Thornton, raising his 
hat and blushing scarlet, as Mrs. Annesley pulled up her horse just 
opposite to a fruiterer’s establishment to give her hand graciously 
enough to the lad. 

“Where have you been?” he went on, presently, his eyes travel- 
ling over her well-spattered habit and the muddy legs both of her 
horse and of that on which Melton was mounted. “Riding hard, 
eh?” 

^‘Been to see the Kildares throw off,” Mrs. Annesley told him, in 
her pretty, low, discontented voice; “at least we set out with that 
intention ; but, having seen them do it, we forgot our original de- 
sign of riding leisurely back again, and found ourselves in the thick 
of the fray before we knew what we were about. Am I very dis- 
reputable?” — glancing down listlessly at her much-soiled cloth. “It 
was such a pleasure to get away from this dreadfully dirty, disa- 
greeable Dublin, even for a few hours, and to enjoy in its place a 
little of the sweet country air. You cannot fancy how it has pleased 
and freshened me; and I have to thank Captain Melton for it all.” 

“Glad to have been of the slightest service to you,” murmured 
the captain, politely. 

“Good sport?” questioned Thorton. 

“So so,” returned Melton, relapsing into his usual taciturnity. 

“How I wish I had known you were going with the Kildares!” 
young Thornton exclaimed, regretfully. “I met you yesterday, you 
know, and you never mentioned it.” 

“It didn’t occur to me. Besides, you once told me you never hunt- 
ed with any but the Wards.” 


1 


THE PITY OF IT. 


“Well, yes; but, of course, had I only known where you, were go- 
ing to-day, I would haye ciit everything to join you — if you would 
have taken me.” 

“iiow touching!” murmured Mrs. Annesley, with a little mock- 
ing laugh. “How infinitely tender! How inexpressibly afiecting 
are your reproaches when uttered in that tearful tone? How old 
are you, Charlie?” 

“Not very old — barely middle-aged; but it doesn’t matter about 
a fellow’s age in these days, does it?” said Charlie, who was a cornet 
in the Dragoons, and, having a bewitching little moustache, was 
naturally desperately ashamed of his nineteen years. 

“Just what I think,” Mrs. Annesley went on, cruelly, “and there- 
fore of course you’ll tell me. How old are you?” 

“Twenty-one,” answered Thornton, and blushed a bright red, 
both at the lie and at the consciousness that even twenty-one was 
disgracefully behind the mark. 

“Or seventeen — which?” said Mrs. Annesley, and yawned faintly 
behind her gauntleted glove; then, half turning her horse’s head, 
“Better come and dine with me this evening, if you have nothing 
else to do,” she said, as she moved on her homeward journey. 

“Thank you; I shall be only too glad,” young Thornton answer- 
ed, with a pleased smile, and went on his way rejoicing. 

For some little time Melton and Mrs. Annesley went silently on- 
ward, each apparently occupied with his or her own reflections. 
Melton, whose simple habit it was to spend his days in alternately 
falling asleep and suddenly waking up again, was probably dream- 
ing peacefully as he rode along, totally oblivious of all surrounding 
objects; but with his companion the case was widely different. Her 
thoughts were fixed on sunny days long past — on sweet regretful 
memories — on passionate heart-felt yearnings for the hopeless 
“might have been.” All the morning, and during the entire ride, 
she had been nervously seeking words to ask a certain question that 
meant so much to her; but not until the entrance-gates were reach- 
ed did she manage to frame her sentence to her own satisfaction. 

“I have rather lost sight of the old set for some time,” she said — 
“that is, of the half of you that went to India. But yesterday I 
fancied I saw old King Disney at a distance; and he revived with- 
in me the remembrance of ancient days. Was it fancy, I wonder, 
or the veritable man himself?” 

“J,’lie man himself, I dare say. The lot of them arrived from In- 


THE PITY OF IT 


% 

dia last week, or fortnight, I forget which; but I never thought of 
mentioning the fact to you, as I felt certain you must have heard all 
about it from some one else/^ 

“No; you are my first informant. I shall be very glad to see 
some of them again. They have all come safely home to us, I hope? 
Did you” — with the faintest hesitation in her tone — ‘‘that is — have 
you seen Douglas Brooke — my cousin, you know — has he returned?” 

“Yes; saw him day before yesterday,” said the captain, sleepily; 
“and uncommonly well he was looking, too. Never quite believe 
myself all those stories about India and a fellow’s liver, you know. 
Seems to agree pretty comfortably with most of ’em, anyhow.” 

“Yes, just so,” Mrs. Annesly replied, with a little absent shake 
of the head ; and she held her peace after that until, the hall-door 
being reached, Melton took her down from her saddle, and she 
turned to enter the house. 

“You know your own room,” she said, then, looking back at him 
with her careless sweet smile; “but, as dinner won’t be for an hour 
yet, perhaps, you will wish a cigar in the shrubberies before dress- 
ing. You have plenty of time for it.” And, having listened to his 
— for him — lively acquiescence in this plan, she swept up-stairs to 
her own charming sanctum. 

A most pleasant room it was, perfect in all its details, and had 
evidently been furnished by some one who loved well the intended 
occupant; but to Mrs. Annesley just then its various beauties passed 
unlieeded. She threw off her riding-hat and pressed her hands 
tightly against the sides of her head. 

“A whole fortnight in Dublin,” she murmured, despairingly, — 
“a whole long fortnight, — and never once has he come to see me!” 

* sic sH He Sfc sic * 

The year Blink Bonny — shadiest of outsiders — w’on the Derby, 
saw the finish of Talbot Scrope. Upon the favorite, with almost 
positive certainty of success, he staked his all, the wreck of a once 
handsome fortune, with considerably more besides, and, as the 
Fates would have it, lost. 

His wife — happily died before the arrival of this last and final 
crash — had loft him an only daughter, a fair-haired, soft-eyed girl, 
whose childhood had been passed in neglectful loneliness, and her 
girlhood amidst scenes of racing, betting, and evening entertain- 
ments, where cards and dice were the principal features of the pro- 
gramme. One friend she had, a friend w^ho fast developed into a 


THE PITY OP IT. 


4 

lover, and waited anxiously for the moment when he should be en- 
dowed with those good things the gods are supposed to provide, to 
rescue the woman he loved from the every-day injurious associations 
that surrounded her. 

Douglas Brooke was a distant cousin of Madeleine Scrope, so dis- 
tant that it had taken many hours of the lovers’ time to discover 
the exact relationsliip tliat existed between them, — such happy gol- 
den hours that come but once in a lifetime, when heads draw close 
together, and lips frame tender words, and eyes look love to eyes 
that speak again, 

’ Douglas was but a lieutenant in a Line regiment, with nothing 
besides his pay except a small income of something between one and 
two hundred a year, inherited from some uncle of by-gone memory, 
while Madeleine could lay claim to nothing beyond her beautiful 
face and graceful gentle manners; but to these two the life they 
led was one all strewn with roses, before which they could see no 
rocks to climb or stormy winds to weather. Douglas would soon 
attain his captaincy, and then then they would have reached their 
pinnacle of bliss; but meantime they enjoyed to the full their glad 
to-day, and dreamed sweet dreams of their future. 

After a while Douglas was ordered otf to India, and then Blink 
Bonny won the Derby, and Talbot Scrope aw^ake to the fact that he 
was a ruined penniless man, and that his daugher had one of the 
fairest faces to be found in the land of green. 

After that, flight notice w^as taken of Douglas’s name or welfare. 
His letters were pooh-poohed as stupid, his hopes in life stigmatized 
as vague and uncertain to an alarming degree; while Madeleine whs 
told to think no more of her soldier-lover. But the girl was firm. 
No words or cutting sneers could make her look coldly upon young 
Brooke’s suit. She declined altogether to see or hear that he had a 
fault; and, though she made no further mention in public of his 
dearly-prized despatches, all the more for that she treasured them 
in secret, sleeping on them, and at times blotting them with tears 
half sweet, half bitter. 

Geoffrey Annesley, of Annesley Park, near Dublin, was rich, well- 
born, and something over forty years of age. He had never mar- 
ried, — whether from want of inclination or other reasons was not 
known, — but it so happened that, about a year after Douglas Brooke’s 
departure for India, he saw Miss Scrope upon the grand stand at 


THE PITY OF IT. 5 

Puiichestown, and, seeing, loved her with an earnestness that almost 
alarmed himself. 

To get acquainted with her father was a matter of little difficulty, 
Talbot Scrope's civilities being open to all moneyed associates; and 
With Madeleine, Annesley soon made friends. He was a handsome 
manj with pleasant courteous manners, and, loving the girl as he 
did, he found it easy to make himself agreeable to her in many 
ways. 

Talbot Scrope, seeing presently how the land lay, encouraged his 
hopes by every means in his power, while Madeleine herself, albeit 
unconsciously, still further fostered them by the childish confidence 
she displayed towards him, never perceiving tlie drift of all his at- 
tentions, until one day he roused her to a full sense of the truth, by 
begging her eagerly, hopefully, to be his wife. 

She was shocked, astonished beyond all words, and grieved besides 
that one so kind to her should by her act be made unhappy. 
Douglas was still enthroned above all compeers in her breast; and 
nothing was left her but to dismiss with a sad but very decided 
negative her middle-aged lover. To Annesley this was of course a 
very severe blow, many things having led him to hope for a dilfer- 
ent answer to his proposal ; but, being a man whom nothing daunted, 
and being utterly unaware of a rival in the background, he begged 
at Madeleine’s hands a kind forgetfulness of the unlucky venture, and 
prepared silently to wait and watch for any symptoms of that might 
lead him to believe in a change ot‘ sentiment on her part. 

Meantime, he took the father into his confidence, and astounded 
that worthy parent with the intelligence of how Madeleine liad 
actually refused him and Ids seven thousand a year. Such conduct 
in Talbot Scrope’s eyes was simply unparalleled in all the time- 
li )nored legends of ungrateful and undutiful children. He spoke 
to Madeleine, raved at her, tried with continued eloquence to alter 
her decision, but without avail; after which he bethought himself 
that, all being fair in war as in love, he would resort to foul means 
to gain his ends, the gentler sort having failed to awaken his daughter 
to any sense of propriety. 

The Indian mail arrived shortly afterwards; but this time it 
brought no tidings of her distaiit lover to the expectant Madeleine. 
At first she would give no heed to the heart-sinkings that followed 
on this unusual silence: but, when again the foreign post came in 
and still brought no Indian letter, her spirits failed, and terrible 


6 


THE PITY OF IT 


forebodings crossed her mind. Ah, could it indeed be true, what 
her father had been hinting about so much of late, that Douglas 
had grown careless and forgetful of her in his far-off land, that he 
was eager for an opportunity to break an engagement that must 
perforce “be of long standing? She would wait and watch and pray. 
She would not believe her cousin faithless. But, when again and 
again the passionately longed-for day came around, and still brought 
her no word of her first love, she lost all heart, and the end of the 
year saw her the listless broken bride of Geoffrey Annesley. Not 
until she had disclosed to him all the secret of her first unhappy at- 
tachment did she consent to be his wife; but he, trusting to time 
and the strength of his own affection to alter her feelings towards 
him in the future, gladly accepted her, in spite of her never-to-be- 
forgotten past. 

Nevertheless, when years had gone over their heads, and he found 
Ids young wife, though ever sweet and dutiful in her demeanor to- 
wards him, in no wise nearer to him in heart than she had been on 
their fair bridal morning, there were moments when Geoffrey An- 
nesley would have freely bartered his possessions could he have , 
gained, even for one hour, what was to him beyond all price, — the 
love of his beautiful wife. 

if. ♦ He ♦ He He 

“Captain Brooke,” announces the servant. And Mrs. Annesley, 
rising, finds herself face to face once more with Douglas Brooke. 

He is greatly changed. This she sees in the first swift glance, 
altliough she is trembling from head to foot, and knows an addi- 
tional pallor has fallen across her usually colorless features. By a 
violent effort, however, she restrains her emotion, and, moving for- 
ward, holds out her hand. 

“Is it you, Douglas?” she says, endeavoring to speak with the 
quiet warmth the occasion demands, and failing miserably, while 
placing a hand that has suddenly grown cold as ice within his. 
“I’m so glad to see you. I had a few fears about you coming at 
all; but I now see they were unfounded.” This is a most unfortu- 
nate remark, and the moment it is past her lips she would gladly 
give worlds to recall it. 

“Why should you doubt iny coming?” he asks, in a hard way. 

Since hi'^ entrance he has never once removed his eyes from her 
face, and this continued scrutiny greatly adds to the nervousness 
that is gradually overpowering her. 


THE PITY OF IT. 


7 


“Principally because Captain Melton told me you were in town 
quite three weeks ago; and that seems a long time to let pass with- 
out coming to see an old friend, does it not?” 

“Very. How altered you are, Madeleine!” 

“Am I? I suppose so. I feel tolerably venerable at times. Don’t 
sit there, Douglas: you will find this chair so much more cosy. 
They make such ridiculous furniture nowadays tliat one is almost 
afraid to use it. Well, and so you think me altered?” 

“Yes; you are hardly the Medeleinc I remember. But of course 
tliat should not surprise me. You have changed from a pretty girl 
into a still more beautiful woman.” 

“You must not flatter me,” she says, with a little nervous laugh. 
“And, if you think me looking well now, when I have such a hor- 
rible headache and am at my worst, what would you think if you 
saw me in all my glory? By the bye, Douglas, do you know many 
people in Dublin now? Would you care for any invitations? There 
will be the Guards’ ball on the 19th.” 

She feels painfully that she is talking against time; she dreads 
witli ever-increasing horror a break in the conversation. Oh, if 
Geoffrey’s figure would but appear in the door- way! Never befor<‘ 
in all her married life has she wished so earnestly for her husband’s 
presence as at this moment, when she finds herself alone with that 
husband’s rival. 

“How long is it since we parted?” asks Brooke, utterly ignoring, 
if indeed he has heard, her last words. 

“How long? Years and years, 1 think. It seems to me siich ages 
ago that I almost forget.” 

“Do you’?” — bitterly, getting up and going over to the hearth- 
rug, where he stands leaning against the chimney-piece and looking 
down upon her sitting beneath. “What memories you women have ! 
But it did not take you years to forget, Madeleime, did it? ’\rontlis 
sufiiced.” 

‘T do not understand,” says Mrs. Annesley, coloring faintly, and 
bringing her teeth down sharply upon her under lip. 

“Of course not. I did not expect you would, It is such an 
absurd thing for a fellow in these days to feel cut up because a 
woman throws him over, to believe himself hardly used because a 
few silly love-letters have been left unanswered.” 

“Letters! What letters?” — with suppressed agitation. “Any I 
ever received from you I answered.” 


8 


THE PITY OP IT 


“I don’t want any excuses,” he interrupts, hastily; and I have 
no wish whatever to — to see you false to your conscience on my 
account. I came here to-day more from courtesy perhaps than any- 
thing else; and, now that lam here,” — with an expressive glance 
round the exquisitely-furnished apartment, — “I can hardly won- 
der at your preferring your present life to one with nothing 
to recommend it save such an utterly useless and worn-out attribute 
as love. But I beg your pardon ; I bore you : no more shall be 
said about it.” 

‘‘But more shall be said!” exclaims Madeleine, rising with flashing 
eyes. “As you have chosen to introduce the subject of the past, 1 
will discuss it now with you for the first and last time. You speak 
of letters; and I tell you again, all I ever had from you I answered! 
A year after you left me you ceased to write. In vain I waited and 
on my knees prayed for even one line to reassure me of your faith: 
it never came. You hint at my falseness! Who was false but 
you? You had forgotten me! I was alone in the world! You 
know my father was worse than useless; and then came my hus- 
band, offering me a warm heart and a home that at least would be 
free from the horrors that every day surrounded me. Believing in 
your treachery ” 

“Madeleine!” 

“Hush! let me continue! Believing in your treachery, finding 
myself deserted and forgotten, with nothing remaining to itie of my 
most cherished hopes but bitter memories, what was left to me but 
to accept the truest, kindest love that ever yet was given? You 
accuse me of forgetfulness; now I tell you the truth! It is the 
truth, what I say; you must know that!” 

Brooke is white as death. He is evidently using terrible self- 
control. 

“So he was bent on separating us?” he says, presently, in a deadly 
calm voice. “It was a very successful plot! And the letters, what 
of them? They were suppressed?” 

“How can I tell? I know nothing of them! You have raised a 
horrible doubt in my mind! Oh, Douglas, spare the dead!” 

•T wrote four in all,” he says, slowly, “without getting any re- 
ply. Of course there was but one thing left for me to think, Made- 
leine ” 

“Do not say another word!” she entreats, eagerly. “I will not 
hear it!” 


THE PITY OF IT. 


9 


“Only one! You must answer me this!' If — if no foul play had 
divided us, would you have been true to me?” 

“I would,” she. answers faintly, and then sinks back into her 
chair and lets her face fall forward into her hands. 

Presently someone’s fingers close round hers, and looking up, she 
becomes aware that Brooke is on his knees beside her. 

“Madeleine, hear me!” he says, in a voice changed and hoarse 
with passion. “Call me mad, wicked, worse than foolish, — what 
you will ; now that I have seen you again I feel I must speak! As 
a girl I loved you; as a woman I know I love you ten times more! 
You arc all the world to me, — my very life! To gain you I would 
fling aside ambition, liberty, all that makes life most sweet, — nay, 
even honor itself!” 

She tries to speak, but cannot. She can only turn upon him 
wide beseeching eyes. But it is too late ; as he has begun so he must 
finish. 

“What is this life you are leading?” he goes on, vehemently. “Is 
it a happy one? Oh, darling, with all its great beauty, your face lacks 
content, and in your eyes lies an expression that never rested there 
in our fond, tender past! Is an enforced and loveless tie to be con- 
sidered binding? Isa bond that springs from basest treachery to be 
forever sacred?” 

She pushes him from her then, and, rising, shrinks away from 
his very touch. 

“What are you going to say?” she whispers, in a horror-stricken 
tone. 

“You know what I am going to say! Oh, my love, surely happi- 
ness is not impossible to us yet? Madeleine, I swear I would not 

so speak to you if, coming here to-day, I found you light-hearted. 

nay, even tolerably contented in your home! But that is not the 
case. I know you love me still; and what torment is equal to that 
of being separated from those we love?” She shakes her head in 
dissent. “You deny it? Come, let your lips frame the falsehood 
if they can! Say you do dot love me!” 

“I do not!” She forces her pale trembling lips to utter the 
words. 

“Is that the truth?” he cries. “Madeleine, your face, your very 
agitation, belie you! Your heart is as much mine as on the day we 
parted! 1 implore you not to decide too hastily. I am wealthy 
now. Yes, when it was too late I found myself a rich man; when 


lO 


THE PITY OF IT. 


all I held most dear on earth was beyond my reach, I gained the 
money I had so longed for, — only to curse it for its tardy coming. 
In a foreign land we might yet be happy! Why must you consider 
yourself forever bound to a man who bought you with his gold?” 

“And you would buy me with yours! Hush!” she cries, pas- 
sionately; “not a word against the truest, kindest friend a woman 
ever had! I have listened to you too long already! Your words, 
your very presence here, are an insult to him! Oh, Douglas,” — 
holding out her clasped hands in pitiable entreaty, — “if you still 
retain even a shadow of the old love fqr me, have pity upon me, 
and go!” 

“And have you no pity for me?” he says, almost fiercely. “Am 
I nothing? Does my wretched live not count? You have ruined 
every hope I ever formed. If you drive me from you now, Made- 
leine, remember you look upon me for the last time!” 

“1 remember,” she murmurs, faintly. 

“And still you bid me go!” 

“I do.” 

“What a fool I am,” he cries, bitterly, “to believe any woman 
capable of an honest affection! My absence or presence is no more 
to you now than if I were the very commonest acquaintance! 
While I curse and cavil at the cruel fate that has separated us, you 
stand there cold and unfeeling!” 

“No, no, she interrupts him, painfully, “not cold, not unfeeling. 
You who know me cannot accuse me of that. Oh, is it because my 
task is hard that you must .seek to make it harder?” 

“Is it hard? Then you still love me, Madeleine?” 

“I do,” she answers, turning full upon him her beautiful an- 
guished eyes, “and it is because of that love I now entreat you to^ 
leave me. Though this unhappy affection should consume me, 
never for a moment will I prove disloyal to the man who so trusts 
and believes in me. I tell you solemnly” — laying her hand upon 
her bosom and looking upwards — “that sooner than fiy with you 
and so bring disgrace upon his name, I would gladly die, — ay, a 
thousand deaths! Therefore it is that I pray you to go, and let me 
find, if not happiness, at least peace.” 

He is deeply touched; but, this better feeling not bringing \yirh 
it consolation, he falls upon his knees before her and hides his face 
with a groan. 

‘Is t'aara, then, no hope for me?” he says, desparingly. 


THE PITY OF IT. 


I 


“Not ill this world,” she murmurs; “but th^re is another ; here- 
after we may meet again.” 

*‘0h, my life, my darling,” cries he, ‘‘how shall I live without 
you?” 

A faint irrepressible sob escapes her; she turns aside, but one 
hand, wandering downwards, alights, upon his bowed head and 
lingers there caressingly. Gradually it reaches his face; and, 
roused by the touch, he rises, still holding the white cold hand 
pressed closely to his lips., 

“Before I go, Madeleine,” he says, “you will not refuse me my 
only request? The time was when they were all mine; now I ask 
but for one. Will you kiss me before we part — forever?” 

She makes a motion towards him, and, for the last time on earth, 
is folded in her lover’s arms. A moment later he is gone ; and, as 
the door closes behind him, Mrs. Annesley sways helplessly for a 
second or two, and then falls as one dead upon the ground. 

When, a quarter of an hour later, Geoffrey Annesley arrives, it is 
to find his wife still lying there insensible. Terrified to the last 
cTegree, he raises her from the floor, and, laying her upon the sofa, 
tpplies such remedies as, after a little while, restore her to con- 
aeiousness. When at length she opens her eyes, he can see within 
sheir clear depths a vague expression of fear that gradually changes 
to one of relief as they fall upon her husband’s face. Languidly, 
and with a sigh, she puts her hand to her head. 

“Where am I?” she says, with feeble bewilderment. 

“Here, darling, and I am with you. Do you feel better now?” 

“Yes — much better. When did you come, Geoffrey?” 

“A few minutes ago, and found you lying senseless over there. 
You frightened me more than 1 can say. ■ How was it, darling? 
Did you feel ill?” 

“I fainted, I think,” says Mrs. Annesley, evasively, turning away 
her head, while a bright hectic flush comesi to the surface and dyes 
her pale cheeks crimson. 

Thereupon Geoffrey asks no further questions, albeit he is de- 
voured with anxiety to learn the real cause of her illness, but, pass- 
ing his arm round her waist, half carries, half supports her up the 
stairs. Upon the landing outside the bed-room door is Mrs. Annes- 
ley’s maid. Geoffrey beckons to her. 

“Here, Lisette, your mistress is not quite well; see that she has 
very thing she requires,” he says, and resigning her to the care of 


2 


THE PITY OF IT. 


the vivacious but compassionate Lisette, enters his dressing-room, 
where he finds Dickson busy about his evening clothes. Dickson is 
wonderfully useful, but also effusive. 

“Not that coat, Dickson; get me another.” 

“Yes, sir. Very cold day, sir.” 

“Very.” 

“Yes, sir — cold and dull, sir.” 

“I did not find it particularly dull; but then I was busy.” 

“Just so, sir” — not in the least abashed; “nothing like employ- 
ment to keep one from the ‘blues.’ But here in the house, you see, 
sir, the mistress even complained a good deal, not being able to get 
out, what with the fogs and the drizzles. These boots, sir?” 

“Yes. The climate is depressing. I hope she had some friends 
to keep her from being bored to death.” 

“Yes, sir. I hear Marks saying as how the Honorable Mrs. Gow- 
er and the Miss Gowers sat a long time ; and in the hafternoon — or 
more towards hevening — a strange gentleman called — a Captain 
Brooke — military gent he were.” 

“Ah!” says Geoffrey Annesley, and then, dismissing Dickson, 
goes into his wife’s room, and, finding her lying pale and harrassed 
upon her bed, induces her to confide to him all that has passed be- 
tween her and her cousin ; after which, he leaves her to gain some 
rest, feeling the happier for having sobbed out her sorrowful confes- 
sion upon his faithful breast. 

Two years have passed away — two years of easy-going, unevent- 
ful existence that have left but few traces behind them as they 
went. Between Geoffrey Annesley and his wife there still endures 
as full and open a confidence as of old; and, though the name ot 
Douglas Brooke is never mentioned by them, nevertheless the si- 
lence conceals no miserable secret that, coming to light, might cause 
Them to drift asunder. 

Once or twice, by purest accident, the twp men met, but, each 
knowing who the other was, a formal introduction between them 
was studiously avoided. Not once again during the short stay he 
was in his native land did Douglas Brooke give himself the chance 
Df looking upon Madeleine Annesley’s beautiful face. As soon as 
his affairs were settled, he went to England, and — the one glimpse 
he had again obtained of his lost love having fatally increased the 
lasting passion he entertained for her, he shortly afterwards eX' 


THE PITY OF IT. 


13 

changed into another regiment, and was almost immediately order- 
ed upon foreign service. 

He has been gone something over fourteen months, when Greoff rey 
Annesley strolls leisurely into his breakfast-room one morning in 
July. It is gorgeous, glowing July, so warm that a hushed and 
drowsy feeling pervades the very air, while a certain vague tenden- 
cy towards sleepy idleness runs languidly through people’s veins. 
Yet, and in spite of all this, must the “Times” be read. To-day it 
seems almost a labor to run one’s eyes through its closely-printed 
columns, and Annesley suppresses a yawn as he shakes it from its 
folds. 

But presently, uttering a sharp ejaculation, he nearly drops the 
paper. His brow grows damp, a powerful agitation seizes hold of 
him. There before him in black and white stand out with terrible 
plainness the tidings of Douglas Brooke’s barbarous death : 

“Killed in a skirmish with the Maories — brutally murdered.” 

The words swim before his eyes. In a moment he sees with 
strange vividness the slight, tall, handsome figure, the blue eyes, 
the chestnut hair of his rival, the living form of the man who had 
come between him and his heart’s love. How horrible it all seems! 
— how impossible to picture him lying dead and cold in a foreign 
land, far from all who loved him, never again to look upon the 
green shores and purple hills«of old Ireland! 

And then arises the thought of his wife. Who is to tell her of 
her cousin’s death? Must the task devolve upon him? Geoffrey 
shrinks from the idea of inflicting this blow, as one would shrink 
from some mortal wound. He has ever made it a point to refrain 
from all mention of Brooke’s name in his wife’s hearing, and now 
must he begin with only the miserable story of his death? Then 
succeeds a wild hope, a sudden gleam of passionate unholy joy that 
almost overcomes the man who stands there with the fatal tidings 
still fresh in his hand. Now that Brooke is dead, now that he has 
passed away forever — this fair-haired rival of his, into the land of 
shadows, may it not be that his memory too will fade from Made- 
leine’s mind, leaving her free to come to him — Geoffrey, her hus- 
band — at last? Surely in her sorrow and grief it is to him she will 
turn for consolation, and receiving it, may learn to bestow upon 
him in the end that priceless treasure of her love that for so long 
lias been another’s. Poor darling, poor little soul, how will she 
Ui:r the news? Faint, perhaps, or cry, or 


H 


fH& P/rv dF IT. 

The door opens, and Madeleine enters. She is dressed m softest, 
whitest cambric, long and trailing, with just the faintest fleck of 
color at her throat and in her hair. 

“What a delicious morning?” she says, going over to the window 
and throwing it open so that the fresh pure perfume of the slumbering 
flowers creeps up and lingers round her from the grass parterre be- 
low, where they lie, scarce caring to raise their drooping heads 
beneath the rays of the oppressive sun. “I do believe this is tlie 
prettiest place in the world in summer: I shall be almost sorry to 
leave it to go abroad next month. What shall we do with ourselves 
to-day, Geoffrey?” 

“Anything you wish, my darling.” 

“Then 1 shall wish to drive all the way to Kingstown, to take a 
boat there, and to spend every bit of this livelong summer day upon 
the water.” 

“So you shall,” says Mr. Annesley. 

But the words almost choke him as he remembers what he has to 
tell her this happy summer morning which she seems so bent on ap- 
preciating to its fullest. Never has she appeared to him so sweet, 
so gay, so contented with life, a^ now, when he feels a few short 
words will blot out all the tender brightness of her face. And he 
alone must be the one to speak them ; his hand must be the one to 
strike the blow. * 

His wife, turning away to an easy chair, throws herself lazily into 
it. Geoffrey, with the paper still in his hand, moves so that his 
back is toward her, and then essays to speak. He cannot look at 
her while executing his painful duty; He dares not watch the 
changes on her expressive face. So, with a sickening terror at his 
heart, he goes over to the window, where she so lately has been 
standing. 

“Madeleine,” he says. 

“Well, dear?” 

“I have something to tell you.” 

“If it is anything disagreeable, Geoff, do not tell me until to- 
morrow. I want to be quite happy to-day.” 

Mr. Annesley almost groans aloud. 

“But it must be told,” he says, desperately. “You know your 
cousin’s regiment was ordered last year to New Zealand; and I see 
by this morning’s paper that — they have had a slight bmsh with the 
Maories — and — and Douglas — your cousin — has been — is wounded.” 


I 


THE PITY OF n. 

!rhet*e IS an instant’s pause. 

“Is he dead?” says Madeleine, in a voice that is utterly dispas- 
sionate. 

“Yes,” replies Geoffrey, in a whisper, after which ensues a long 
silence. 

It is over. The dreaded words have gone forth, and he is thank- 
ful to believe she has borne them better than could ever have been 
expected, — has neither screamed, nor cried aloud, nor exhibited 
deep feeling of any kind. Annesley — strong man as he is — is trem- 
bling from head to foot. He stands gazing out over the clean-mown 
lawn, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, only conscious that there is 
a great expanse of pale azure covering the heavens, all down to 
where in the far distance the blue sky kisses the earth. 

He cannot bring himself to meet his wife’s eyes just at first; 
but presently, having recovered himself a little, he says, in a low 
tone, — 

‘Tt seems very sad, does it not?” 

There is no reply. A sudden horrible fear seizes him, and, turn- 
ing, he gazes at her with bated breath. 

She is lying back in her chair, a calm, utterly sweet expression 
upon her still white face. One hand lies listlessly upon her lap, 
the other hangs over the side of the chair. But, oh, what is that 
disfiguring the purity of her dress? — that thin crimson stream 
which, commencing at and dyeing her sweet lips, creeps downwards 
even to the fingers of the hand resting so helplessly upon her knee? 
Surely not blood! 

It has all happened in a moment. The pain and grief and sor- 
row of years are at an end at last; the poor tired heart has found 
its rest. 

THE END. 





ERIC BERING 


BY THE ^^DUCHESS/* 


**A man I am, cross’d with adversity.” 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

“So it is all settled at last, — quite over, — and I have actually fallen 
into my proper position as drawing-master without in any way seri- 
ously damaging my constitution !” exclaimed Eric Dering, half mock- 
ingly, as, on a bright warm summer afternoon, he lounged up and 
down the tiny morning-room of one of the tiniest cottages in Christ- 
endom. “I think, on the strength of this new opening in my life, 
I will give myself a whole holiday from the easel this morning, — 
eh, Georgie? Are you asleep, child? Or what are you thinking 
about so silently?” — turning as he finished his sentence towards a 
distant corner of the room, where Georgie, the individual addressed, 
had been maintaining an unbroken silence for the last few minutes. 

At these words, however, she rose hastily, and, throwing down 
her work with an impatient gesture, moved 'across the room to where 
her brother was standing at the open window contemplating dreami- 
ly the peaceful beauty of the landscape, and plucking to pieces reck- 
lessly the soft pink roses that, creeping round the casement, framed 
ais figure. 

“I was thinking, dearest,” she said, with extreme tenderness, lay- 
ing her hand upon his arm, — and a very gentle, fair little hand it 
was, — “what a brave old fellow you are, and how nobly you have 
borne the reverses of our fortune. Oh, Erie, are you to have all the 
work while I sit idly by, doing nothing to assist you? The idea 
makes me miserable. Is there no way in which I can prove myself 
of some use?” 

“Don’t talk nonsense, child,” he answered, lightly, taking the 
hand that rested on his arm and holding it lovingly between his own; 


2 


ERIC BERING. 


‘^do you think I would allow you to work these pretty fingers to the 
bone, or ruffle your poor little brow with overmuch thought, for the 
sake of what you could earn? No, I will work for us both. And I 
tell you I will woo fortune and win her too, in the long run, in spite 
of all obstacles, and without the assistance of any man. So ctieer 
up, Greorgie, and do not look so downhearted, darling, but help me 
to forget the wealth that should, I know, in common fairness have 
been mine, and let us instead dream of the time to come, when your 
brother will be an ‘eminent artist,’ and you will be hesitating in your 
own mind as to whether you will bestow yourself upon a duke or a 
marquis.” 

To this half-jesting,' half-confident speech the girl made no reply 
beyond raising his hand and pressing it tenderly to her cheek, while 
the sweet June sunshine came down to drown her in its warm em- 
brace, transforming her rippling chestnut hair into threads of liv- 
ing gold. 

Eric and G-eorgie Dering were orphans, their father and motlier 
having been carried off by one of India’s fatal fevers when they were 
both almost in their infancy, leaving the children iri trust to Cap- 
tain Dering’s half-brother, Eustace Morgan. To more unwilling 
hands they could scarcely have been confided, Eustace Morgan bet 
ing, from long and close study, a confirmed bookworm, of a stern 
and selfish temperament, a man who abhorred all change in tlie 
measured routine of his loveless life, and who received the little pale 
India-bred children, if not exactly grudgingly, at least without a 
particle of natural affection. 

Very little of life’s sunshine fell upon the lonely creatures through- 
out their desolate childliood, with no playmates to raise a smile upon 
their too thoughtful faces, no mother’s voice to soothe the innumer- 
able trials of infancy. They were very quiet in those days, with a 
sad quietness pitiable to behold in beings so young, their chief 
amusement being to wander hand in hand, with hushed footsteps, 
through the ghostly dim old halls, past wild beasts stuffed and 
marble statues, up the grand oak staircase, and into the picture- 
gallery, where spruce cavaliers and grim armored knights looked 
down from their gilded frames upon the handsome children beneath 
them, who, with tightly-clasped fingers and admiration mingled 
with awe, surveyed in silence the ancient ancestors who stared at 
them so sternly in return. 

Miss Dering — the . old man had commanded — was to receive as 


ERIC DERING. 


3 


good an education as governesses and masters were capable of be- 
stowing, while the boy, who was at least six years older than his 
fair-haired little sister, was to be coached and drilled and lectured 
by teacher’s and pastors into that fitting state of enlightenment 
which should enable the heir of Branksmere to sit with dignity in 
the seat of his forefathers. 

As such he was regarded by all the country round, — by the ser- 
vants and tutors, and those few residents who on Sundays after 
church, in the ancient village porch, stopped to ask the “odd little 
strangers’* all sorts of questions about themselves and their occupa- 
tions. The old squire himself had frequently dropped hints to the 
same effect, as, for instance, when one evening, on some wonderful 
occasion, the children had been marshalled down with great pomp 
to attend the nine o’clock dessert, at any of which state entertain- 
ments the gray-haired butler paid the youngsters great honor, help- 
ing them to all sorts of things that were decidedly bad for them, — 
the boy had asked his uncle, with pardonable curiosity, “Uncle Eus- 
tace, wliose is that picture over the chimney-piece?” and the squire, 
having roused himself with difficulty over the solving of one of his 
beloved problems, had answered kindly enough, “Your great-grand- 
mother. I keep her here on account of the perfect beauty of the 
painting; but when you bring home a bride, Eric, you must place 
her picture in the gallery up-stairs, as all the masters of Branksmere 
have dono before you.” 

So also, a few years later, when the boy, who had grown into a 
tall, handsome, shapely lad — had returned home from Eton on his 
holidays, and had been taken to the study that his uncle might see 
how manly he had grown, and mark the fire of intellect that sparkled 
in his soft brown eyes, the old man, as though struck by the youth’s 
sudden springing into manhood, had placed his hand upon his 
shoulder, not affectionately, but with the old courtesy habitual to 
him, and drawing him to the window, had pointed eastward to 
where some giant trees were growing straight and grand. 

“You will remember, Eric,” he said, “when I am gone, that those 
elms must never know the touch of steel. It is my one request of 
you; I beg you to spare them, no matter what other wood you cut 
and'hew and carve.” And the boy answered, “Yes, uncle, I will 
remember,” while he wondered vaguely in his own mind what there 
could be in the stately row of elms to raise so much sentiment in 
the frozen breast of Eustace Morgan, 


4 


ERIC D BRING. 


When Eric had reached his twentieth year, his uncle decided that 
he should travel; so, bidding a lingering adieu to the blue-eyed 
little girl who clung so despairingly to his neck, he set out on his 
voyage of discovery to many lands, learning numerous things that 
had better been left unlearned, and taking to heart others that it 
was well a man should know. In this wise — seeing the base and 
noble, the wicked and blessed actions of life — he journeyed on, until, 
arriving in Italy, all the wild genius hitherto smouldering in his 
breast broke loose, and the young man swore to his own heart that 
he would make a name for himself or die. 

Painting was his ambition. What were all the gold and lands 
upon earth in comparison with seeing a face grow beneath his hand 
which should force the world in after time to confess that “it was 
good?” So arguing, he gave his whole soul to his art, working and 
slaving and toiling from “dawn to dewy eve” at his beloved occupa- 
tion, scarcely allowing himself time to scribble off now and then 
short expressive letters telling of his successes and failures, his 
happiness and wild longing for fame, to the lonely little child who 
had grown in his four years’ absence into a beautiful girl of eigh- 
teen. In this manner the days passed smoothly enough, until one 
morning he received a letter from the old family lawyer, Mr. Top- 
thorne, announcing his uncle’s death, and his — Mr. Topthorne’s — 
great anxiety to have him back in England once more. 

The news shocked him greatly, as it was only natural it should, 
although no great love had ever existed between him and the one 
now gone; and, packing up his latest painting carefully, he bade a 
tender farewell to his beautiful dark-eyed model, and travelled post- 
haste to England, arriving at Branksrnere one magnificent evening 
towards the close of May only to hear that his uncle had died suddenly, 
intestate, whereby all the property went to an elder nephew surnarned 
Morgan, and he and his delicate sister were left totally unprovided 
for. It was news to make a sterner cheek than his grow pale and 
meeker eyes flash angrily; but, with his elbow resting on the chim- 
ney-piece in the library, and his face half shaded by his hand, the 
only expression of reproach Eric Bering bestowed upon the memory 
of the dead was, — “I wish, Topthorne, he had given me a pro- 
fession;” to which slight expression of resentment poor little Mr. 
Topthorne, who had broken the bad tiding very gently to the young 
man he had known from boyhood, had ausvvered pityingly, “I wish 
to Reaven he had.” 


ERIC DERWG. 


s 

As for Creorgie, the child shed far more bitter tears -on her broth- 
ers account than ever dimmed her blue eyes on her own. “My 
poor darling,” she had sobbed, throwing her arms around him, “it 
is too hard for you — too hard;” and somehow,* though he had made 
no reply beyond kissing her, Eric at that moment felt that the 
night was not indeed all darkness while those clinging tender arms 
were still left to him. 

The new heir, a man of immense property, was on the Continent, 
and had written home orders that the house and all in it should be 
quite at young Bering’s disposal so long as it would suit him to re- 
main; but for all that Eric could not bring himself to stay longer 
than was strictly necessary, as a visitor, in a place where he had 
been accustomed to the homage due to a future master — so, having 
secured a tiny cottage somewhere in the adjoining county, he and 
his sister looked their last one morning on the green fields and 
wooded park of Branksmere, and passed out together into the cold 
pitiless world. They had been three days in their new abode, and 
Eric had at length succeeded in getting a pupil, to help on the wea- 
ry round of life until his merit as an artist should be acknow- 
ledged, and he should wake some morning to find himself famous. 
Evening was come, and Georgie Bering, watering-pot in hand, 
stood in the centre of the square little garden that ornamented the 
front of their fairy-like dwelling, busily tending her flowers, while 
Eric lounged at a slight distance from her, smoking and watching. 

“You have not told me about your pupil, Eric,” his sister said 
presently, stooping to pluck off a crumpled rose-leaf as she spoke 
— “the young lady who is to lay the foundation-stone of your fu- 
ture fortune, you know.” 

“Haven’t I?” lazily, removing his pipe. “Well, I will make up 
for my remissness now. Miss Janet Harcourt is a pale little child 
of about fourteen, with a decided talent for painting, who will as- 
tonish the weak nerves of the artistic world some of these days, or 
I’m a Butchman. Then there is Sir John Harcourt, who may be 
satisfactorily described as a ‘gentleman of the old school’ — which 
must have been a very extensive and peculiar institution by the way 
— and finally there is Miss Harcourt, who is considered a beauty.” 

“Miss Harcourt!” Georgie repeated, curiously. “I had no idea 
there was another girl. How old is she, Eric?” 

“Abeut two years older than you — twenty-one, I should say,” 


6 kRIC BERING, 

^‘Twenty one,” Georgie murmured, thoughtfully; ‘‘and very nice, 
1 think you said, Eric?” 

“No, I don’t think I said that,” Eric answered, coolly, knocking 
the ashes out of his meerschaum as he spoke. “1 do not believe 
that expression would suit Miss Harcourt by any means. On the 
contrary, she seems cold and hard and haughty, while, from her 
manner, I should say that she holds drawing- masters in very low es- 
teem, indeed.” 

“Eric!” cried his sister, passionately, dropping the unoffending 
watering-pot, and running over to his side, while her pretty lips 
quivered with suppressed pain and rage, “she did not dare ” 

“Now, G-eorgie,” the young man chided, taking her face between 
his hands, and forcing her to meet his eyes, “how am I ever to per- 
suade your obstinate little mind to understand this — that Eric Der- 
ing, heir to eight thousand a year, and Eric Dering, heir to a draw- 
ing-master’s salary, are two very different beings? Listen to me at- 
tentively, and do not mistake things, while I tell you all that hap- 
pened, which is not much. Miss Janet Harcourt and I were getting 
on very nicely with our first lesson this morning, when the door 
opened and a young lady entered the room ; whereupon my pupil 
introduced me to her sister, Miss Harcourt, who looked me all over 
superciliously for a moment before she condescended to bestow upon 
me the very haughtiest inclination of her exceedingly haughty lit- 
tle head, looking as cold and disagreeable and insolent the entire 
time as a young lady could well look. Not being perfectly broken 
into my new position just yet, I am afraid I was absurd enough to 
feel angry, and put on my most unpleasant expression until slie 
rustled out of the room again, whicii_ she did in a moment or so 
after she had delivered a message to her sister, when T once more 
subsided into my usual state of amiability. This is a full, true and 
particular account of the day’s doings, so I hope you are satisfied, 
little one, that MissJIarcourt neither boxed my ears nor otherwise 
ill-treated me.” 

“Cold and insolent,” Georgie repeated, sorrowfully. “And yet 
you said she was beautiful!” 

“Considered beautiful,” the young man corrected, moving away 
abruptly. “I see no beauty in her face.” Then, looking back with 
a light laugh, he quoted, gayly, you know, Georgia, — 

‘ If she be not fair to me. 

What care I how fair she be ?’ 


ERIC BERING. 


7 


and oertairily her conduct towards me was not fair this morning.” 

After this he went straight into the house and up to his small 
studio, leaving Georgie standing in the warm June twilight to think 
of him, and resent his wrongs bitterly in her heart, while half her 
flowers waited anxiously for the cool grateful water that never came 
— on that night at least — to bathe their longing faces. 

* id * * ♦ * 4c 

“Papa,” cried Janet Harcourt, eagerly, about a fortnight later, 
as Sir John put his head inside his eldest daughter’s room to 
deliver a letter he had received for her, “stay a moment, — I want 
to speak to you,” — running over and seizing him by the coat to 
compel him to remain. “1 saw Mr. Bering’s sister in church yes- 
terday, and I want to know her; she is so lovely. May I go and 
call on her? I know I shall like her awfully.” 

“Like her awfully,” repeated the baronet, laughing, “and you 
have never yet spoken one word to her? Chr^s, why do you not give 
this foolish child some of your sense? Yes, my pet, you may go 
and see her as soon as you like;” saying which. Sir John retreated 
hastily to get himself ready foridinner. 

“There, that is settled!” exclaimed Miss Janet, decidedly. “And 
you will come with me to-morrow,— eh, Chris?” 

“Yes,” answered Chris, dreamily. 

“Do you know what I think?” continued the child, speaking with 
confidential slowness. “I think Mr. Bering is a gentleman; and I 
think also that both he and his pretty sister were rich once, but that 
some bad man came and ran away with all their money. I cannot 
tell you why I think this, but I feel sure of it.” 

“Are you quite sure of it?” her sister asked, with a half laugh. 
“What a little wiseacre you are!” 

“Yes, I dare say 1 am a wiseacre,” the little one went on, more 
earnestly still, “because I can see many things that other people 
cannot see — Chris” — breaking ofl abruptly and going over to Miss 
llarcourt’s side, where she knelt down at her feet and laid her bare 
white arms on her lap, — “why don’t you like Mr. Bering?” 

“Why don’t 1 like him?” echoed Christine, gazing with wonder 
upon the small face uplifted to her own. “Who told you I did not 
like him, Janet?” 

“Yourself, — your own manner,” said the child, softly. “Oh, 
(Mnis, you who are so sweet and charming in your manner to every 
one else, why are you so hard and unkind to him? I am very 


ERIC BERING. 


% 

sorry about it, because I like him myself so much, — and I cannot 
bear that he should not admire you.'^ 

“And does he not?” Miss Harcourt inquired curiously, an odd 
nndefinable expression creeping over her face. 

“Well, I'll tell you, her sister began, importantly. “Yesterday 
I said to him, after you had left the room, — and 1 think you were 
especially nasty to him, Chris, — ‘Is not my sister Chris a beautiful 
darling, Mr. Dering?’ and he answered, almost slightingly, ‘She has 
very perfect features.’ ‘But do you not admire her?’ I said again, 
because I was dying to know, and he replied, quite coldly, ‘I 
always find it difficult to admire a hard face.’ So you see it is all 
your own fault, Christine, — and he said all that, I assure you.” 

“Did he?” was all Miss Harcourt answered, quietly, but she raised 
her little sister’s arms gently from her knees and went over to the 
open window, where she stood very silently for a long time with her 
back to the child. Outside, under her eyes, the perfumed fiowers 
were nodding their heads lazily in the rays of the warm dying sun, 
while a large blue-and- white butterfiy swept slowly across her face, 
and a heavy brown luxurious old bee tumbled with a contented 
buzz into a tulip-bell hard by. 

But, when the next morning came, Janet discovered that after 
all she must needs pay her visit by herself, Christine being troubled 
with a very severe headache, she said, which, somehow showed itself 
neither in look, manner, nor speech, as her eyes were quite as bright 
as usual, and her voice as clear. Nothing daunted, however, Janet 
ordered her pony, and rode off triumphantly to take Miss Dering’s 
heart “by storm,” as she said with a gay laugh when mounting,— 
which boast she most certainly fulfilled long before the interview was 
half ended, captivating Georgie’s affections by her easy childish 
grace and expressive face. She praised the flowers, the lazy old 
tabby cat, and even Miss Dering’s blue eyes, with tl.at ring of genu- 
ine feeling in her voice that makes all praise so sweet, and finally. 
Catching sight of Eric ready to set out for the hall, to give her her 
morning lesson, she called out to him to wait for her, and she would 
ride back her pony very slowly with him for company. 

Arrived at the hall, Eric and his young charge found Christine in 
the school-room before them, — an apartment so called, although it 
was the girl’s favorite resort, and the cosiest little room in all the 
house, — looking as lovely as though headaches and heartaches were 
things unknown. She had never been accustomed to do more than 


ERIC BERING. 


9 


to bow to Eric, but on this day— prompted by either feeling or 
caprice — she extended her hand to him. She did it haughtily 
enough, scarcely raising her eyes to his while doing it, but J anet 
was pleased with the action, and looked so, while Eric bit his lip 
fiercely and barely touched the hand she offered. 

“You have had a warm ride,” Christine said, passing her hand 
very sweetly and lovingly, Eric saw with surprise, across her sister’s 
forehead. He was watching her, now that she could not perceive 
him, and he discovered, to his still greater astonishment, that her 
large proud eyes could soften more than he would have believed 
possible some time since, while her voice came clearly and fondly, — 
hope you told Miss Dering that it was a very severe headache 
alone prevented my accompanying you to-day ?” 

“Yes, I told her,” Janet replied. *‘I hope it is better now, my 
poor Christie, and that you will be quite well for dinner. Oh, you 
have on your lovely brooch! See, Mr. Dering, isn’t it the very 
prettiest thing you have ever seen?” 

“It is handsome,” Eric answered, carelessly, glancing at it criti- 
cally as he spoke, “but not the very prettiest thing I have ever 
seen,” and involuntarily as he said the words he raised his eyes to 
the beautiful face above it. A minute afterwards he could have 
hated himself for the sentence, because, meeting Miss Harcourt’s 
glance, he discovered, by the vivid crimson blush that overspread her 
features, how entirely she appropriated the little speech to herself. 

^ He was provoked and annoyed more than he would have chosen to 
confess, and immediately informed Miss Janet, with exemplary 
coldness, that jewelry of any sort found no favor in his sight, and 
that the very loveliest thing he had ever seen was a little peasant- 
girl in Italy, dressed in fantastic rags, who wore her hair down to 
her heels, and sold flowers. 

“When you have flnished your drawing, and Mr. Dering has con- 
fided to you all his Italian reminiscences, will you come with me to 
the orchard, Janet?” Miss Harcourt broke in, languidly. 

“She can join you this moment,” said Dering. “She cannot go 
on with her study this morning, — her hands shake so from the in- 
tense heat. Good-by, Miss Janet, — I. will finish my foreign revela- 
tions another time; and promise me not to meddle with your paints 
any more to-day, but give yourself a whole holiday.” 

“I promise. Good-by,” little Janet said, sweetly, giving him her 
hand; “and tell your sister I will call very soon again to see her.” 


iO 


ERIC DERINO. 


“I shall remember,”’ Eric answered. ‘‘G-ood-morninpf, Miss Har- 
court:” and he gave the latter no opportunity of repeating her 
unusual piece of morning friendliness — namely, shaking hands with 
him — by bowing distantly, and disappearing through the low French 
window, his favorite mode of exit after the daily lesson. “Good 
heavens,” he thought, as he strode rapidly across the park, under 
the shade of the, grand old oaks and spreading beeches that effec- 
tually shielded him from the glare of the noonday sun. What a 
face that girl has! What an amount of pride, hauteur, and sweet- 
ness condensed in one small space! How beautiful she is! how 
gracious to all around her! how loving to her little sister! while to 

me Oh, to be rich again, to be even with her for only one short 

half-hour, — to compel her to smile, — to speak to me as she smiles 
and speaks to others who are not fit to touch the hem of her gar- 
ment! If. I could hold her in my arms for one minute, and see 
that insolent, mocking, maddening face grow tender and loving 
under my gaze, I feel I could be content to go away forever, and 
accept such a moment’s bliss as my portion of happiness in this life. 
She blushed when I looked at her just now, — blushed angrily because 
of my presumption, I suppose, in daring to consider her beauty. 
Pshaw! I am mad to think of her in this way, like a love-sick 
sphool-boy. I have the prospect of fame before me; I have art for 
my mistress, — with which I ought surely to be contented, — and I 
will banish all other hopes from my heart.” But for all that, and 
in spite of his courageous determination to think of her no more, he. 
knew in his inmost soul that the perfect face of Christine Harcourt 
would haunt him till his death. 

After this the days passed on monotonously enough, with nothing 
to vary the usual routine of daily life beyond a visit from the hall 
to the cottage, or a return visit from the small dwelling to the large 
one. Sir John had been introduced, and had taken a wonderful 
fancy to pretty chestnut-haired Georgie Dering, persuading her to 
come up to the hall as often as ever she could, and sendingher down 
perpetually large baskets of fruit and flowe>rs from the gardens, he 
having taken it into his kind old head that she required such deli- 
cate things to keep up her fragile little frame. Christine herself had 
fallen in love with her after a few weeks’ acquaintance, going to 
considerable trouble to gain the good graces of the sister while slie 
still continued to ignore and depreciate the brother, much to Janet’s 
discontent, who was at all times Eric’s fast friend and ally. Tier af- 


^klC DEklNQ. 


tt 


fection for Miss Dering, however, was, almost in spite of herself, 
warmly returned by G-eorgie, who informed her brother one evening 
that she was at a loss to understand his bad taste, as she considered 
Miss Harcourt “very sweet and charming to speak to, and quite the 
lovliest girl she had ever seen,” whereupon Eric answered her that 
he supposed in that case she made a point of reserving all her disa- 
greeable manners for his special edification ; after which would-be 
indifferent speech he went away up-stairs to his diminutive paint- 
ing-room to think of the girl who made herself so unlovable to him 
alone, and to gaze with vain yearnings on a certain picture he was 
painting, which picture strangely resembled the heiress of Harcourt 
Hall. 

July was coming to a close, and all the air was heavy with the 
sweet breath of flowers, mingled with the perfume of the new-mown 
hay, when one morning Miss Harcourt and her sister, arrived at the 
cottage, to find Georgie standing alone in the little garden, snip- 
ping, plucking, and in other ways tending her beloved plants. 

“How pretty everything looks to-day!” Janet said, presently, laz- 
ily pushing up her hat from her warm young brow. “Even you are 
looking tolerably well this morning, Georgie.” At which piece of 
open impertinence they all laughed indolently. 

“Come in, will you not, and sit down?” Georgie asked. “You 
must feel dreadfully used up after your long walk. It is really 
more than good of you to come down and enliven my dullness this 
overpowering day. I don’t know where Eric is, as I have not seen 
him since breakfast ; but I dare say he is up in his ‘enchanted pal- 
ace,’ as I call his painting-room — he is so wedded to it.” 

“His painting-room?” cried Janet. “Oh, Georgie, I would give 
my eyes to get into it! Would he let me go up, do you think, if I 
asked him?” 

“Yes, he would,” answered Eric, with a laugh, appearing at the 
open window, having overheard Miss Janet’s last remark, “even 
without demanding the eyes. How d’you do, Miss Harcourt? Warm 
day. isn’t it?” 

“Very, ’’Miss Harcourt answered, absently. 

“Very well, take me there now, as I am extremely anxious to see 
your picture-gallery,” said Janet, saucily. “Are your hands all over 
paint that you keep them behind your back in that suspicious man, 
ner? I verily believe they are.” And she ran in through the open 
window, and round Eric, to try to get a peep at the hidden fingers. 


12 


ERIC DERING. 


“If you insult me any more I shall not admit you into my sanc- 
tum sanctorum,''' Eric declared, threateningly, retreating always as 
she came nearer, “or else I shall shake hands with you, and utterly 
spoil those pretty gloves, whicli would be worse still; so take care.’’ 

“Oh,' well, a truce! I will be civil,” Miss Janet cried, feeling 
rather out of breath with her exertions, and slipping one hand 
through his arm. “So do come now and show me all your wonderful 
things.” 

“I suppose you would not care to come?” Eric said, pausing for 
a moment, and flushing slightly, as he looked straight at Miss Har- 
court, expecting a cool refusal from her curved red lips. “But — ” 

“Yes, I think I should like it very much, if you would invite 
me,” that young lady replied, with most unusual condescension; 
whereupon all four took their way upstairs to Eric’s own apartment. 
Here they lingered about for the best part of an hour, Eric showing 
them all his choicest scraps and his most spirited sketches, to Janet’s 
intense enjoyment, while Miss Harcourt* made herself most particu- 
larly pleasant and agreeable, falling in love on the spot with a bril- 
liantly-finished portrait of a beautiful Italian peasant. ‘ ‘Is it the girl 
you were telling Janet about the other day?” she asked, glancing up 
at him rather coquettishly from under her white straw hat, and 
blushing faintly while he answered “No” very absently. How little 
little she thought how infinitely superior to him seemed the living face 
before his eyes to all the Italian flower-girls ever painted. 

Meanwhile, Georgie had gone down-stairs again tq get them some 
fruit and wine after their long walk, leaving Janet to her own de- 
vices, which at this particular juncture meant prowling into all sorts 
of obscure corners and bringing to light such half-finished dfficult 
subjects as Eric had put away for future consideration. She had 
not, however, been very long so employed, when an exclamation 
that fell involuntarily from her lips caused the other two to turn 
hastily and inquire the cause. But small need was there, when they 
had turned, to ask any questions, as before them on the table, in the 
very centre of the room, unveiled by Janet’s hand, lay disclosed to 
Christine Harcourt’s gaze a perfect picture of her own exquisite face. 
As they both stood, spell-bound — one of them unable to speak from 
astonishment — the child raised her eyes, and seeing the storm gath- 
ering on Eric’s brow, together with the angry flush upon her sister’s, 
she rightly guessed in a moment that it was her last act which had 
been the cause of both, and so, wisely coming to the conclusion that 


ERIC BERING. 


13 


in this instance at least “discretion” would be the “better part of 
valor,” she fled from the apartment precipitately, leaving Christine 
llarcourt and Eric Bering gazing with very diflierent feelings upon 
the luckless painting. 

When she was gone, the young man strode forward hurriedly, and 
would have again replaced its usual covering, but Miss Harcourt 
prevented him by laying her hand upon his arm. “Let me see this 
picture, please” she said ; and he stepping back, she contemplated long 
and earnestly her own charming image, which looked at her from 
the frame with liquid hazel eyes, after which she turned silently, 
without a word, to leave the room. Eric, however, seeing her inten- 
tion, placed himself determinedly before her, so barring her exit and 
forcing her to meet his gaze. 

“Miss Harcourt,” he began, hastily, “do not judge me to harshly 
in this matter, I implore you, though all I can say in my own de- 
fence is that 1 could not help it. Day by day and night by night 
your face was before me, haunting both my waking and sleeping 
hours, until it became a necessity that I should place it in some 
tangible form before my sight. Do not turn so coldly from me, — 
do not think ” 

“1 think only one thing,” Miss Harcourt said, very coldly, but 
with bitter emphasis, — “that day by day you have taken advantage 
of my society to paint and hold in your possession, without my per- 
mission, what you know well I never should have given you for the 
asking, — never I And I think also that in so doing you have acted 
like a coward.” Her face, when' she had finished, was as white as 
snow, but for all that she looked steadily and defiantly into Eric’s 
eyes, who returned the gaze as steadily. 

“You shall never say that to me again I” he said, after a few mo- 
ments’ pause, during which his heart had throbbed painfully with 
the intensity of his grief and the knowledge of how shamefully she 
wronged him in her thoughts; and then, walking calmly to the table, 
where the picture lay, he deliberately opened his penknife and cut 
the beautiful features into tiny shreds, even while the beloved eyes 
smiled up reproachfully into his. After this he flung the mutilated 
fragments into the empty fireplace, and then turned to open the 
door for Miss Harcourt. 

The whole scene occupied but a few minutes, and Christine, after 
the first involuntary movement to stay the cruel hand, had watched 
the work of destru(;tion from l>eginuiiig to eqcl 14 utter silence. 


ERIC DERING, 


»4 

But when all was ended, and the brilliant laughing face that an in* 
stant before had been so charming a picture lay a confused mass in 
the cold grate, — while Eric stepped so callously, as it seemed, to- 
wards the door, — Miss Harcourt’s highly-strung nerves gave way, 
and she burst into a sudden storm of tears, quick as a summer 
shower, and almost as violent, which, while it lasted, shook heavily 
her delicate frame, 

“Miss Harcourt — Christine darling — don’t cry I” Eric exclaimed, 
passionately, going hastily to her side and forgetting in his agony 
all knowledge of his words. “Why will you think so much of this 
unfortunate occurrence? See — I have ruined the picture forever 
— destroyed the one possession that was to me the most precious 
tiling on earth — and I swear to you never again to paint such an- 
other! Am I not then sufficiently punished, without knowing also 
that it is my folly which has caused you these tears?” 

“I am not thinking about the picture,” the girl answered, turning 
away from him towards the window, where she laid her burning 
forehead against the cool shining glass ; and it was many a long day 
afterwards before she told him why she had shed those bitter heart- 
felt tears. 

He ^ ♦ * ♦ * » 

That night, with his elbow resting on the table, and his face half 
hidden from the glare of the brilliant lamp, Eric Bering told his sister 
a short but sorrowful story that saddened her loving heart not a little. 
He told her of his passionate unchangeable love for beautiful Christine 
Harcourt, also how utterly hopeless he felt that love to be, and how 
impossible he found it to remain longer near her without betraying 
himself. It seemed selfish, he said, to tear her away from the pretty 
cottage she had learned to love so dearly, but he knew well that 
nothing would tempt her to forsake him, so they would go away 
together to the North of England, where he would devote himself 
to his art, and school his thoughts to forget this first and, as he de- 
voutly hoped, last love of his heart. 

Georgie listened silently, from the quiet commencement to the 
more vehement end, without in any way interrupting his confession, 
beyond slipping her gentle little fingers into his with true womanly 
sympathy. When he had completely finished, she tightened her 
grasp, and whispered, kindly, — 

“And she, Erie, — are you quite sure that she does not love you?” 

“Quite sure,” Eric answered, calmly, but with intense bitterness, 


ERIC BERING. 


15 

thinking of the morning’s scene in the studio; “and, even if she 
did, what difference could it make to me ? By what right could I, 
in my present position, even dream of the heiress of Harcourt 
Hall?” 

“Then we will go,” Greorgie decided, tenderly, in her pretty low 
soothing voice; and so the discussion ended. 

About a week later Miss Harcourt was busy in her conservatory, 
pointing out some alterations to be effected by her head-gardener, 
when a quick footstep, coming towards her from the drawing-room, 
caused her to turn abruptly and encounter the well-known features 
of Eric Dering. They had never met since that last memorable 
occasion in Eric’s painting-room, and the girl’s face flamed warmly 
now as she extended her hand in greeting. 

“I am come to bid you good-by,” the young man said, without a 
word of preface. 

“To bid me good-by?’’ Christine repeated, vaguely, as though 
failing to take in the real meaning of his words. “Why, where are 
you going, and for how long?” 

“Forever!” he answered, shortly, but vet-y wearily, gazing with 
sickening anxiety at her the while to try to discover some faint symp- 
toms of regret in her fair face. She said nothing, however, but tl^e 
warm blood that had dyed her brow on his first appearance vanished 
completely at his last sentence, leaving her quite destitute of color, 
while, with head bent down and fingers trembling nervously, she 
trifled with a small pale blossom in her hand. 

“Why do you go?” she asked, presently, rather unsteadily, trying 
with determined anxiety to speak in her naturally clear voice and 
failing miserably. 

“Because I cannot stay,” he answered, with suppressed vehemence, 
taking the little crushed flower from her hand without permission, 
and moving a few steps away from her. His voice grew strangely 
hoarse as he continued : “Do you know it is nearly three full months 
since first I met you, — three long months, — and yet during all that 
time you have never bestowed on me so much as one civil sentence? 
Now, before I go, will you say something kind to me, — something 
that 1 may remember gladly in the dreary days to come, and that 
wdll cause me to say in my own mind, ‘She once said that to me ’ ?” 

“1 hope you will be happy,” Christine murmured, after a mo- 
ment’s pause. 

“Not happiness — do not wish me happiness!” the young man 


1 6 ERIC BERING. 

cried. ‘‘I am not mad enough to hope for that in this life. Wish 
me success.” 

'‘I do wish it,” she answered, faintly, turning slightly away from 
him, and putting up her hand to her white, round throat. 

“Thank you,” he said, simply. ‘‘And now there is nothing left 
but to bid you good-by, and so leave you.” She did not answer. 
“Will you not wish me good-speed?” he asked, coming a little near- 
er, and speaking reproachfully ; whereat the girl suddenly, and with 
almost wild impulsiveness, came up to him, and placed both her 
hands in his, raising to his face, as she did so, two great sorrowing 
eyes, heavy with burning tears, which told him more plainly than 
any words could have conveyed that he held in his keeping the 
warm, wayward heart of Christine Harcourt. 

“My love, my love!” was all he said; but he held her in his arms 
for one wild, delicious moment, after which he passed out into the 
glistening, golden sunshine, and hastened away under the spread- 
ing sheltering trees, without even daring to look back once to where 
he had left all that he held most sacred upon earth. 

The next day the brother and sister left the cottage — the tiny 
home in which they had both known so many happy hours, and 
where Eric at least had endured in silence numberless torturing 
heartaches. To these two, therefore, the parting was fraught with 
much sadness, so that it was in utter silence and with deep regret 
that they bade farewell forever to the picturesque little dwelling 
which for so long had sheltered them. Georgie had expressed a 
wish to visit Branksmere once more before going farther north, the 
heir being still abroad; and, Eric being only too willing to forward 
her every wish, he had telegraphed to their old friend and adviser 
Mr. Topthorne to meet them there, and have 9ne more happy day 
together before they set out for their new home. 

It was a magnificent morning early in August when they again 
drove down the avenue of stately elms to stop at the hall-door of 
Branksmere, where they found the little lawyer waiting to receive 
and welcome them, -looking in every respect precisely the same as 
when they had last parted, some three months before. He appeared 
more than glad to see them — in fact, his thin wrinkled face quite 
beamed with delight as he held kind little Georgie’s hand within 
his own, and complimented her on the sweet freshness of her ap- 
pearance — after which he asked them innumerable questions, in- 
(piiring closely and anxiously as to their reasons for quitting their 


ERIC DERING. 


17 

last abode — which inquiries were answered by Eric with anything 
but a strict adherence to the truth. He put an end to them pres- 
ently, however, by informing Georgie hastily that, if she wished to 
see the old place once more, she had better begin immediately, as 
the train left the station in about three hours. Thus admonished, 
they all began, without loss of time, the sorrowful task of inspect- 
ing a house full of the memories of bygone times. 

Here was the school-room, where brains had been puzzled and 
tiny hands cramped with futile attempts to train a a refractory pen 
in “the way it should go;” and there was the ancient dining-room, 
■where so many formal dinners had been eaten, and so many weary 
hours passed, without the customary pleasant table-talk. It seemed 
to Georgie that she could almost once again see the old squire deep 
in thought at the top of the long wainscoted apartment, with the 
pompous old butler moving about in the ghostly silent manner he 
affected, helping and removing without the slightest sound of step 
or breathing to denote his presence. But day-dreams never linger 
long, and she woke from her revery abruptly to wander through 
other rooms, and call up in them visions as lonely and saddening, 
yet very sweet withal. Finally, having traversed the well-remem- 
bered picture-gallery and their sleeping apartments, they descended 
silently the broad oak staircase to the hall, and passed into Eustace 
Morgan’s study, the only room now left unvisited. 

“How desolate everything looks,” Georgie said, mournfully — 
“how cold and cheerless! I think Mr. Morgan had better come 
back quickly, or he will find the old place gone to wrack and ruin. 
Bee — the pretty papering is all white in this part from mould.” 

“Ay, indeed,” old Topthorne agreed, with a dejected movement 
of his head, going over to where Eric was standing at the window, 
lost in buried thoughts and recollections. 

“Eric,’* the little lawyer was beginning gently, when a quick 
startled cry from Georgie caused them both to move towards her. 

The girl was standing gazing fixedly at a large hollow in the wall 
before her, and trembling in every limb. A moment previously 
having put up her hand to feel the damp upon the papering above 
the chimney-piece, the wall had given way beneath her fingers, and 
disclosed to her astonished view a small cupboard or recess in which 
lay, neatly folded, several papers. 

Mr. topthorne, running eagerly forward and seizing the topmost 
] acket, examined it carefully, and then fell back on to a chair, staring 


i8 


ERIC DERING, 


almost wildly at Eric the while. “The will!” he gasped, when he 
could manage to speak. ‘ Tt is your uncle’s will. Eric, with heaven’s 
help, you shall be righted yet.” 

, Georgie fell upon her knees beside the old man’s chair, too over- 
come to stand. “Open it,” she said. 

“Call up the servants, Eric, and send for some of the surrounding 
magistrates!” cried Mr. Topthorne excitedly, scarcely knowing what 
he was saying ; and, sure enough, when the will was formally read, 
it was discovered that Eustace Morgan had left the whole of his 
immense possessions to “my nephew Eric Dering,” beside ten thous- 
and pounds in funded property to “my beloved and beautiful niece 
Georgina Dering.” There were numerous smaller bequests to old 
and faithful servants, including one hundred pounds each to the 
gardener and his son, who had been the two witnesses to this secret 
deed, one of whom, the father, had been dead for the last four 
months, whilst the younger man had sailed for America the year 
before the old squire’s death, so that there had been nobody alive or 
in the way to disclose the existence of Mr. Morgan’s last will and 
testament, until its fortunate discovery by Georgie Dering. 

When the news had at length become clear to all, the girl’s first 
movement was to burst into tears of intense thankfulness, more in- 
deed for her brother’s sake than for her own; after which she came 
and placed her arms around his neck, whispering fondly as she did 
so, “And now, Eric, will you not go to Christine?” He kissed her 
heartily when she had finished her little speech, telling her she had put 
his own thoughts into words, — had in fact put forth the one idea 
that had been haunting him ever since his fallen fortunes had been 
restored. 

“To-morrow,” he said, — “I could not stay away from her any 
longer; so wish me luck, my darling.” 

“I do,” his faithful little sister answered, with a bright smile, 
adding, “and be sure you give my best love to all the Harcourt 
family.” 

* * * * * * 

It was evening, a warm, dreamy, glorious evening that filled all 
his soul with thoughts half sweet, half sorrowful, as Eric once 
more approached the well-known precincts of Harcourt Hall. He 
walked as he had ever done through the grand old park, which 
seemed to welcome him with open branching arms asht passed 
through it, by the gurgling, rippling streams and sloping lawns, until 


ERIC DERING. 


^9 


he arrived at the perfumed drowsy flower-garden where, at a little 
distance, he perceived the outlines of a flgure that to him was the 
sweetest flower of all. Christine was dressed in soft floating white, 
with here and there a faint touch of blue, while her small hands 
were fllled with scented, gorgeous flowers that seemed to droop, as 
though neglected, in her careless grasp as she looked away from 
them across the wooded landscape with a strange troubled expres- 
sion in her beautiful hazel eyes. 

As Eric’s step came nearer she started nervously, and, turning 
quickly round, dropped all her flowers with a sudden, half-fright- 
ened exclamation. 

“Mr. Bering!” she cried; and then all at once the troubled ex- 
pression on her face changed to one of unmistakable gladness as she 
advanced swiftly towards him, holding out both her hands, — warm, 
clinging little Angers, which he clasped fondly in his own, while a 
wild sense of almost uncontrollable happiness surged up in his 
heart, half choking him with its unwonted power. 

“I have come back again, you see,” he said. “You are glad to 
see me, are you not?” 

“I knew you would come, the girl answered, eagerly, earnestly. 
“I prayed so hard that I might see you, if only once again, to tell 
you how I hated myself for my conduct towards you, and to ask 
your forgiveness; that, I felt, I could not be denied. You do for- 
give me, Eric?” 

“My own, my dearest!” Eric whispered, passionately, drawing her 
closer to him, and holding her as though he never meant to again let 
her go, “if you think there is anything to be forgiven between us 
two, you can gain your pardon now in one way, — give yourself to 
me. See, — I have not come this time as a drawing master, but as 
master of Branksmere lands, to ask Sir John Harcourt for his 
daughter, if only that daughter will tell me she truly loves me. Speak 
to me, Christine, my darling, and let me hear my sentence from 
your own dear lips. “I do love you, Eric,” she answered, smiling 
up at him through tender, blinding tears that came from the depths 
of her exquisite new-born happiness. 

And Eric, seeing all the perfect love and peace that lit up her 
fair young face, kissed her softly, and was satisfied. 


THE END. 




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. s 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


BY THE ‘‘DUCHESS/* 


**The ghost, if ghost it were, seem’d a sweet s*ul." 

Don yuan. 

“Pm very sorry, mum, but I can’t help it. I’ve struggled against 
my feelin’s most manful, but 1 know I couldn’t spend another night 
beneath this roof for untold gold.” 

“This is dreadful!” says Mrs. Vernon, rising from her chair, an 
expression of dispair overspreading her gentle features. “This is 
the third servant I have lost this week: first Hardy, then Jane, and 
now you. 1 don’t know what is to be done. I’m sure.” 

“Tell us all about it, cook,” puts in a pr,etty plaintive voice that 
betrays a certain amount of languor. The voice belongs to Dolores, 
who, looking up with much interest from among her pillows, pushes 
back the lace curtains of the window, the better to see cook, who 
is standing, florid and melancholy, in the centre of the drawing- 
room. 

“I’ll tell you all I know, Miss Vernon ; and, to my thinking, that 
is too much. ,Of course, if it was only hearsay, I'd hold my 
tongue ; but, when it comes to seeing with my own two eyes, there’s 
an end of everything. The maids had been talking awful, as you 
know; but, as they young things often have the skeers for want of 
something better to do, I didn’t believe ’em — until last night.” Mrs. 
Mashem pauses. 

“I feel as if 1 were going to have the ‘skeers’ 'myself !’’ interposes 
Dolores, softly. 

“As I was going to bed, miss, the neuralgia came on me dread- 
ful, and I said to myself I'd go and ask your maid for the lauda- 
num. It was about twelve, or it might be one, — I won’t swear to a 
minit, — when, just as I reached the corridor that opens off the pic- 
ture-gallery, I looked down, and there, just at the very end of it, 


2 • 7 he Wn CHlNG HOUR. 

mounting the stone stairs that lead to the turret, I saw what made 
my blood run cold!” 

Again cook pauses to fan her fevered brow. Mrs. Vernon sinks 
back into lier chair; Dolores lays down her book. 

“Oh, do go on, cook!” says the latter, who is evidently beginning 
to enjoy herself immensely. “You are immeasurably better than 
anything Mr. Mudie can supply. You are positively thrilling. It 
must be so delicious this weather to feel one’s blood ‘run Cold.’ ” 

“It was a figure, miss,” continues cook, gravely, — “the tallest I 
ever see, — covered with a long white trailing garmint, and with 
something on to its head. It walked very majestic like; and I 
think,” adds cook, in a sepulchral tone — “though I won’t vow to it 
- — that there was dark spots upon the garmint, — spots of blood! 
Anyhow, it went right up stairs before my very eyes to the room 
where master’s great-grandfather’s lady cut her throat.” 

“But, cook,” interposes Mrs. Vernon, very meekly, “Mr. Vernon’s 
great-grandfather’s lady didn’t cut her throat at all.” 

“Well, mum, they say she did,” replies cook with deep respect. 

“Mamma, please do not interrupt Mrs. Mashem, ” says Dolores : 
“I am absolutely consumed with a desire to know all. Finish, 
cook.” 

“Well, miss, the sperrit disappeared round the corner, and en- 
tered your painting-room,— which I really think. Miss Dolores, you 
ought never to paint there again, leastways by yourself. My heart 
stopped beating, my ’air rose on my ’ead, and— begging your par- 
don, mum,— the water just dropped off my face. I’m not ashamed 
to say I bolted; an’ I verily believe, had I found Mary’s door fas- 
tened against me, I should ha’ swooned on the spot!” 

Here cook, who is a devoted admirer of ‘penny dreadfuls’ and her 
own powers of eloquence, pauses through lack of breath. 

“It is the most unfortunate thing I ever heard of,” says poor 
Mrs. Vernon. 

“It is the most funniest thing I ever heard of,” puts in Dolores, 
who, in spite of her weak health, is shaking with laughter. 

“I wish, cook, you would think it over,” says Mrs Vernon. “I 
am so sorry you are going.” 

“So am I, mum,” returns cook, honestly affected. “I can’t 
bear to leave a ’ouse that suits me as this does, an’ which I ’ope 
urably I also suited? but 1 couldn’t get my ’ealth ’ere, mum, I’m 
that nervious.” 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


3 


“How can you laugh, Dolores?” says Mrs. Vernon, reproachfully. 

“How can I help it, you mean, when I think of cook ‘nervious,* 
and with her , ’air’ on end?” answers Dolores, and then, turning to 
the servant, she adds, “Oh cook, I think it is very unkind of you to 
forsake me, when you know 1 can eat nothing since my illness ex- 
cept what is made by your own hands! You will drive me to dis- 
traction — and Italy, a month before my time, as, if I remain here, I 
know 1 shall be starved to death.” 

“An’ a good thing, too. Miss Dolores,” says cook, solemnly; ‘‘a 
flitting is the best thing could ’appen you. For when ghosts come 
into a ’ouse no one can say what will turn up.” 

“Well, well, cook, it can’t be helped,” says Mrs. Vernon, hastily, 
yet with regret. And cook, having made an elaborate courtesy, 
withdraws. 

“What is to be done?” asks Mrs. Vernon, turning to her daughter. 
“The matter grows serious. I almost” — with a slight laugh — begin 
to believe in this tiresome ghost myself. How on earth did they 
hear of that woman. who cut her throat?” 

“I thought you said she didn’t,” says Dolores, surprised. 

“No: I merely parried the thrust. Cook said your ‘great-grand- 
father’s lady,’ Now, it was his steward’s wife, who went mad, poor 
soul, and cut her throat, or stabbed herself, or did something equally 
horrid, in that room.” 

“In my painting-room?” says Dolores, opening her great violet 
eyes to their widest. “How shocking! Now, why did she choose 
that room of all others? I must say I think it is very rude of 
people to go about cutting their throats all over other people’s 
houses. I shan’t be able to paint there in comfort for the future. 
I shall always be fancying I see unpleasant-looking ladies hovering 
around me with their heads under their arms.” 

“I shall be glad of anything that keeps you from stooping over 
your painting. It is ruining your health. Have you forgotten the 
terrible fever you have' just come through? And can^t you see you 
can never get strong without perfect rest? You are too excitable, 
child, and your painting makes your brain run riot.” 

“I am infatuated about my last picture, I confess,” returns Do- 
lores, laughing, and coloring until all her delicate pale little face is 
pink as a June rose: “sometimes I even dream of it.” 

“I wonder what we shall get for dinner to-day?” says Mrs. Ver- 
non, presently, in a moody tone. “I shudder when I think of it. 


4 


THE WITCHING HOUR, 


I can telegraph to town, of course, and have another woman in timo 
for to-morrow’s dinner ; but nothing can redeem to-night’s. And 
Frank here, too. It is really more than provoking!” 

‘‘I dare say even Frank can exist on cold roast beef for one 
night, — or whatever else it chance to be,” remarks Dolores, coldly, 
with a little scornful uplifting of her chin; whereupon her mother 
Vegards her with some scrutiny and a good deal of carefully-sup- 
pressed disappointment. 

“Have you and Frank been quarrelling?” Mrs. Vernon asks, after 
a pause. “Now you speak of him always with a sneer or a shrug, 

and only a few days ago I had hoped I think him so much tp 

be liked.” 

“So do I.” 

“Is he not very agreeable?” 

Dolores laughs again, but their is a faint suspicion of constraint 
in her merriment this time. 

“Very”’ she says; “and he has a charming property quite close to 
ours, and it would be so delightful to have me always near you ; 
and he is so fond of you, and he loves papa quite like a son ! Isn’t 
that it? ■ I think I have heard it all a thousand times. But I don’t - 
want to get married, and I shall be nearer to you here in my own 
home than I can be anywhere else. Mamma, come here and give 
me a kiss. You know you are always the prettiest creature in the 
world; but, when you have tliat would-be reproachful look in your 
lovely eyes, you are irresistible, and I adore you.” 

Mrs. Vernon succumbs to her charmer, and bends with a smile 
to receive and return the soft hug bestowed upon her by lier spoiled 
darling: after which she goes away sighing to relate her woes to her 
husband. 

Hardly has she left the drawing-room when the door is once more 
opened, and a young man comes in. He is tall, broad-shouldered 
and bronzed. He is, in fact, one of those people it does one good 
to look at, though just now his handsome kindly face wears a dis- 
contented — not to say aggrieved — expression very foreign to it. 

“You?” says Miss Dolores, letting her eyes rest indolently upon, 
him. “Talk of somebody ” 

“Were you talking of me? How unfortunate I am! Beyond a 
doubt, then, you were saying something disparaging,” rejoins the 
young man, a shade of bitterness in his tone. 

“As usual” — carelessly — “you wrong me. I think, on the contra- 


THE WITCHING HOUR, 


5 


ry, I was saying something good. Let me see’’ — with the indiffer- 
ent air of one who seeks to recall some trivial matter scarcely worth 
remembrance : “I was j ust saying that you had a charming property, 
and that you managed it marvellously, that you were passable in 
appearance, and had very reasonable manners.” 

“I’m sure I’m infinitely obliged; though, perhaps, it can hardly 
be called praise to say a man has a large property.” 

“Excellent praise, I think, as the world goes. Surely it is ever 
so much better than having a large heart. That would be too 
rococo a possession nowadays ; and you at least need not be accused 
of it. You are ungrateful. I really think I said all I could 
for you.” 

‘T can quite understand that. It would, indeed, be abject folly 
on my part to come to you for a character. However, it was ex- 
ceedingly good of you to speak about me at all. Did you say any- 
thing else?” 

“How you cross-examine I Yes, I believe I did” — lazily unfurl- 
ing a huge white fan and waving it to and fro. “I said I didn’t 
care much about you — as I never fancy people who — don’t 
fancy me.” 

“I don’t believe you said that.” 

“No? You are in one of your taking moods to-day. I am afraid 
I spoke prematurely just now when I accredited you with good 
manners. Nevertheless I did say all that.” 

“You may have said it” — with some indignation. “You certain- 
ly didn’t mean all of it.” 

“I did mean all of it.” 

“You can tell me honestly that you believe from your heart I 
don’t care for you ! Dolores, how can you speak like that ? You 
know you are the only woman on earth I love.” 

“The last woman, you mean.” 

“The first and last. Why don’t you understand me? Is it that 
you won’t? Only ten days ago I madly hoped you were beginning 
to care for me a little, and suddenly you accepted a most frivolous 
excuse to break off with me entirely.” 

“No two persons agree on certain subjects. Of course it is im- 
possible to know what may seem frivolous in your eyes; but to 
know you had been head over ears in love with my own cousin only 
a month ago didn’t seem to me a frivolous excuse for refusing to 
listen longer to your ridiculous speeches.” 


6 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


Mr. Harley does not like to hear his vows of affection called 
“ridiculous speeches.” He colors, and feels that he is growing 
angry. 

“I have told you over and over again,” he says, with a visible ef- 
fort at calmness that only betrays more surely the ill-temper that is 
mastering him, “that your cousin is either making a very curious 
mistake or — telling a falsehood.” 

A sudden flame of wrath flashes from Dolores’s great violet eyes. 

“Say nothing uncivil of Felicia,” she says, warmly: '‘she is truth 
itself. I have known her all my life. She is incapable of false- 
hood.” 

“Then it is inexplicable. You say Felisia is truth itself, and yet 
what is it she says?” 

“Do you want to hear again?” asks Dolores, drawing a letter 
from the pocket of her white gown. “Well, you shall, if only to 
refresh your memory, though I hardly think it requires it.” 

Opening the dainty-scented epistle in her hand, she reads — 

“ ‘So Mr. Harley — my Mr. Harley, as I used to call him — is stay- 
ing with you. How strangely things happen! I did not know you 
and he were acquainted.’” 

“Nor were we a month ago,” puts in Dolores, in a tone that plain- 
ly expresses deep regret that such an acquaintanceship should have 
been formed. 

Mr. Harley winces. 

“It was indeed an evil wind that drove me to this place after an 
absence of so many years,” he says, in return. “Pray go on.” 

“ T knew he was leaving town for a short time and going into 
Leicestershire, but had no idea his destination was the Towers until 
I heard from you. Is he not lean garcon, and very much as he 
ought to be? ‘ I shall be quite disappointed if you don’t agree with 
me, as I honestly confess to a little tenderness in that direction. In- 
deed, I should be ungrateful otherwise, as, when here, he was my 
shadow, and a very substantial one. At balls, operas, small and 
earlies, everywhere, he was always by my side. I found him ever} 
thing that was delightful, and evidently he found me the same. 
Though I have had a good many lovers in my time, I don’t thin v 
ever had one so utterly “mine own” as this one. By the by, dear- 
est, how shockingly you scribble! One can hardly make out 

“There, — I needn’t go on,” says Dolores, half impatiently; “that 
is quite enough.” 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


7 


^‘Quite too much. Of course in town one meets the same people 
night after night at every ball that comes off ; and your cousin and 
I were very good friends. But she must be very conceited to 
imagine that because I was seen at Lady B.’s or C.’s I went there 
expressly to meet her. Besides, there was another fellow. It is 
really too absurd! May I see the letter?” 

“Certainly. It is ‘Harley,’ is it not?” 

“It might be anything, I think. I never saw so careless a hand.” 

“It is very like mine,” returns Dolores. 

“I wish,” says the young man, very earnestly, “you would write 
and ask your cousin about this.” 

“Oh, no!” answers Miss Vernon, hastily, with a vivid blush; then 
provokingly, as though to condone the blush, “It would be too 
much trouble.” 

“I forgot that. As I said before, this letter has afforded you the 
excuse you wanted.” 

“I think you are extremely rude,” says Miss Vernon. 

“Well,” — with growing vehemence, — “is there no reason in what 
I say? Only a fortnight ago you almost promised to be my wife, 
and now you positively seem to hate me. What am I to think?” 

“What am / to think?” — with an expressive glance at the luck- 
less letter. 

‘ ‘I shall go back to town to-morrow,” proceeds Harley, after a 
moody silence spent in twisting an unoffending button off his waist- 
coat. 

“You needn’t show such unflattering haste to be gone,” says 
Dolores, deliberately. “Felicia is coming down here next week.” 

Harley turns pale, and throwing up his head with a gesture full 
of haughtiness, turns his face to hers. His eyes are stern, but filled 
with a certain reproach. 

“Because you are a woman,” he says, in a low tone, “is a princi- 
pal reason why you should not offer me an insult. I have already 
told you that your cousin’s coming or going is of no consequence 
to me.” 

Dolores is a little subdued by this unexpected outburst. 

“lam sorry if I have offended you,” she says, quietly. “I am 
also sorry you should decide on leaving the Towers so soon. Why 
go yet?” 

“Why stay? I am only a nuisance to myself and — you!” 

“Oh, no! Surely the house is large enough for us all. You need 


S THE WITCHING HOUR. 

■not annoy me. Besides, you don’t annoy me. Indeed,” with an 
odd little smile, sweet as it is swift, and just one straight glance 

upwards from the azure eyes, — ‘‘I shall quite miss you, because 

How uncomfortable these pillows are! Would it” — another glance 
— ‘‘trouble you very much to shake them up a little? Thank you! 
I was saying if you desert me I shall positively miss you, because 
tiien I shall have no one to quarrel with, except the ghosts. Ah, 
that reminds me. Our particular ghost has come again!” 

‘ ‘Has it?” — with much surprise. He is beginning to feel consider- 
ably better. “I hoped it was laid forever. Any more domestics 
showing signs of distress? Tell me about it.” 

“I shall be delighted” — demurely — ‘‘if you will only sit down, 
and not look as though you were going to start for London this 
moment.” 

Then she tells him all about the spirit’s latest appearance, the 
trailing garments, and Mrs. Mashem’ flight. 

“Perhaps, after all, you were wise when you talked of going,” 
she says, when her tale has come to an end. “We shan’t have any 
dinner to-night, and probably no breakfast in the morning. I 
doubt if you will get anything beyond prison fare for the next few 
days. Nevertheless, I think it would be cowardly of you to leave 
me here all alone to be devoured by a horrid ghost.” 

Mr. Harley smiles; and nothing more is said just tlien about 
leaving the Towers. 

That evening, when dinner is over, and the servants have taken 
their lingering departure, and Miss Vernon is beginning to grow 
happy over her fruit, Mr. Vernon says suddenly and without pre- 
amble, in his usual clear and healthy tone, — 

“Something must be done.” 

A faint pause follows this obscure speech. Then Dolores says, 
with the utmost honhomme , — 

“I always agree with you, papa, don’t I? But T confess 1 should 
like to know what is the ‘thing,’ and who is to do it.” 

“Your mother has been telling me everything,” explains Mr. 
Vernon; “and the loss of a cook is no joke. This trick — for such 
it is, I feel convinced — must be exposed, this flctitious ghost un- 
earthed. Mrs. Mashem is a very sensible woman, and the finest 
hand at white soup I know; and I don’t believe she ever fainted 
without just cause.” 

“She didn’t faint, papa; she only ‘swoonded,’” says Dolores. 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


9 


“Well, I really think there is something in it,” returns her father. 

“And I think I would do almost anything for the one who would 
discover the imposture,” says Dolores, dreamily gazing — as though 
unconsciously, as though without ulterior meaning — at Harley. 

“I shall sit up myself to-night from twelve till two,” declares Mr. 
Vernon, with the air of a hero. Mr. Vernon dearly loves his bed. 

“Oh, Harry,” says his wife, nervously, “1 hope you won’t dream 
of such a thing! Remember the attack you had on your chest last 
year. Surely one of the men can do it?” Deep in the recesses of 
Mrs. Vernon’s heart — where she hopes it will rest undiscovered — lies 
a real and palpable fear of this nocturnal visitant, a fear that drives 
her to bed at eleven o’clock sharp, and compels her, when any sus- 
picious noises make themselves heard during the small hours, to 
smother her head beneath the bedclothes. 

“Tiit, nonsense, my dear, my chest is as strong as ever it was!” 
returns Mr. Vernon, who would have scorned to confess to a malady 
of any sort. 

)>: ii: ^ He ^ 

“Papa, you are not to sit up,” says Dolores, promptly. “I shan’t 
allow it; I forbid it altogether: so put it out of your head.” She 
accompanies this dictatorial speech with several grave little nods and 
a charming smile. 

Nobody ever contradicts Dolores, So Mr. Vernon pats the small 
white hand lying near his own on the table cloth — which looks quite 
dingy beside it — and says no more. 

“I shall sit up to-night,” says Harley, suddenly, with an air of 
determination. “1 like sitting up; and I have quite set my heart 
on finding this ghost.” 

Here he returns Dolores^ former glance with interest; but that 
young lady by neither word nor glance shows signs of comprehen- 
sion. She gazes back at him innocently without so much as a 
quiver in her long lashes, and tells him he is very brave, and asks 
him politely — very politely — to try another peach, they are so good. 
******* 

The midnight hour has chimed long since. All the house is still. 
Through the mullioned window at the end of the long picture-gallery 
great waves of moonlight are pouring, turning all they touch into 
palest silver, lighting up the grim warriors, and bathing in their 
cool rays the simpering dames that line the walls. 


THE WITCHING HOUR, 


lo 

'^How beautiful on yonder casement-panes 
The mild moon gazes. Mark 
With what a lovely and majestic step 
She treads the heavenly hills! 

And, oh, how soft, how silently she pours 
Her chastened radiance on the scene below; 

And hill and dale and tower 
Drink the pure flood of light! 

Roll on, roll thus, queen of the midnight hour. 

Forever beautiful!” 

The light is so intense that one might almost think it day, but 
for the unbroken stillness and the impenetrable shroud — chill and 
silent — that, hanging over all, betrays the presence of night. 

Not the taintest noise, not even the nimble scampering of some 
terrified mouse, comes to break the monotonous quiet that reigns 
everywhere, except the sound of Mr. Harley’s feet as he marches 
disconsolately up and down the east corridor. 

It is now a quarter-past one, and as yet no ghost has put iiv an 
appearance. 

It is really too bad! Perhaps, when undertaking his present 
task, Mr. Harley devoutly hoped no unearthly visitor would present 
himself or herself to him ; but, now that the watch is nearly over 
and nothing has come of it, he feels aggrieved, and as though he 
had been done out of something. 

His thoughts, as he paces to and fro in the lonely hours, with 
nothing stirring save himself and the imperturbable clocks, are not 
very cheerful. He loves, but the desire of his heart is unattainable. 
Of course he is not the only man whose hopes have been nipped in the 
bud, — who has found himself wrecked when in sight of port; but 
this thought, though carefully brought to the front, fails to give 
consolation. 

He goes over the conversation of the morning again and again, 
omitting not the slightest word or look, and he inwardly breathes- 
an uncomplimentary word or two upon Felicia. Then he rouses 
himself with a start, and, glancing at his watch, sees it is nearly two, 
and decides on going to bed. Pshaw! he might have known it v as 
all mere foolish superstition on the part of a few uneducated wo- 
men! Servants, as a rule, delight in the supernatural. The idea 
of any sane person in the nineteenth century thinking he could see 
a disembodied spirit ! Ah! What is that? 

At this point there is a break in Mr. Harley’s thoughts; his 
whole mind flies into his eyes. At first his attention is attracted by 
a faint rustle; then comes an indistinct patter as of high-heeled 


THE WITCHING HOUR. 


II 


shoes ; and now — now a vague shadowy form emerges from the west 
corridor — the one parallel to his — and crosses the picture-gaUery 
right within his view. As it advances slowly and without suspicion . 
of haste into the full light of the brilliant moonbeams, which seem 
to wrap it in a pale splendor, it appears to the breathless sp^tator 
to be indeed of unusual height. It wears a gown, long and of a 
marvellous purity ; one hand is slightly extended, and its face is 
turned aside, as with measured steps it reaches and begins to ascend 
the stone staircase that leads to the turret-chamber — Dolores’s 
painting-room ! 

Mr. Harley cannot say that he feels no fear. His heart beats violently, 
and his breath comes unpleasantly fast. After an instant’s hesita- 
tion, however, he recovers himself, and quickly but noiselessly fol- 
lows the ghostly figure, — now almost out of sight, — and, as he gains 
the top of the stairs, is just in time to see the tail of the snowy 
gown disappear into the painting-room. 

At this moment it occurs to him that ladies long buried with sev- 
ered throats are not nice to look upon ; but he remembers some one . 
who said she would do almost anything for him who should come 
face to face with this ghost, and he goes forward bravely. 

Within the turret-chamber, also, Diana is holding full sway. 
The whole room is flooded with moonlight; the minutest article 
luay be seen ; but the only object Harley sees is the ghost herseK, 
standing by the open easel. 

It is Dolores! A very lovely Dolores, but a Dolores lost in slum- 
ber ! The violet eyes are wide open, but they are sightless, and 
she evidently sees only with her “mind’s-eye.” She is gazing with 
rapt and pleased attention at the canvas, before her, a picture half 
c-xmipleted, while one hand wanders restlessly, aimlessly among the 
brushes and paints near her. 

Harley is spell-pound and a good deal puzzled. He hardly knows 
what to do. He is afraid to leave her ; he is afraid to wake her» 
His doubts at this juncture are happily set at rest forever. A de- 
licious but impatient breeze, born of the summer night, comes with 
a rush through an open window, and the door, half closed already, 
simts with a loud bang. 

Mr. Harley unconsciously retires into the shadow, and Miss Ver-» 
nun, with a deep sigh and the lazy gesture of an awakening child 
stretches out her white arms — which, under the loose sleeves of her 
di'essing-gown, gleam like rounded marble — and wakes! 


12 


THE WITCHIHG HOUR. 


At first she looks around her, as though still half unconscious; 
bat, as remembrance returns, and she finds herself standing in a 
patch of moonlight, when she had believed herself safe between 
two fair lavender-scented sheets, she grows frightened, and with a 
gesture full of horror puts both her hands up to her head. 

'*Ah, what is it? Where am I?^* she cries, in a terrified tone that 
trikes her hearer with dismay. 

He abandons the shadow, and, coming forward anxiously, takes 
down one of her trembling hands, and holds it within his own re- 
assuringly. 

“Dolores, don’t be frightened, ’’he says, hurriedly. It is nothing 
You were dreaming of your picture, and you walked up here, and I 
followed you, and — and that is all.” 

“Oh, it is a great deal!” cries poor Dolores, clinging to him, 
“It’s like a frightful nightmare. And” — distrustfully — “how do 
you know I hjwl a dream? I remember nothing of it. And did I 
really walk up here all by myself, or,” with a faint nervous laugh 
and a shuddering glance behind her — “did the ghost bring me?” 

“My dear child,” says Harley, unable to repress a smile, “do not 
be angi'v with me for saying so, but I am afraid you youi*self muat 
be regarded as the— impostor.” 

“As what?” 

“This apalling ghost that has frightened away all your best seis 
vants,” answers Harley. 

“Do you really think so?” says Dolores, with some disgust. 
“Have I been walking in my sleep for the past fortnight? Oh, it 
is too absurd! And I shall be horribly laughed at! You must 
promise not to tell any one of it except papa and mamma. They 
won’t dare to laugh at me.” 

“I will make you any promise you like.” 

“And so,” says Dolores, growing amused now that her fear is at 
an end, “you have actually succeeded in bringing to light this evil 
spirit? And it is your first attempt, too! I really think you de- 
serve the Victoria Cross, or a gold medal, or something.” 

“I certainly think I do deserve something,” says Frank, mean- 

"*And doubtless you will get it. But, even if you don’t, remem- 
ber, 'Virtue is it’s own reward.’” 

“A very poor reward,” returns Harley; then, with great earheet- 
ness, “Dolores, shall we never be friends again?” 


THE WnCHING HOUR. 




'•'Well, I don^t believe we ever shall,” sax's Dolores. 

Kven Mii^ Vernon must think this a very unkind speech, Iwcause 
site moves backastep or two impatiently, and, in so doing, touches a 
jimall table near her, causing some books upon it to fall heanlv to 
the ground. Harley, to cover his chagrin, stoods to pick them up, 

"‘Be careful of them,” says Dolores, with a cruelty that makes her 
hate herself, although she cannot resist the desire to say it; be care- 
ful: they belong to Felicia!” 

A photograph has fallen from one of the books, face upf>ennost, 
upon the floor. Harley, lifting it, regards It carelessly, aud says, in 
an indifferent tone, that she may see he is not utterly crushed by 
her incivility, — 

“I know this face. I have seen him often in town,— with your 
cousin.” 

The photogiaph represents a young man dressed in Hussar uni- 
form. 

“Yes; I suppose he is a friend of Felicia’s. I found the picture 
in that book when she left us. His name is written by her at the 
bacik of it.” 

"‘Ah, so it is! ‘Hanley,’ is it?” uncertainly. “Why, it might be 
^Harley,’ or ‘Hanley,’ or anything!” Then suddenly he lifts his 
head, his color deepens, and a quick light, as of inspiration comes 
into his dark eyes. “There has been a mistake,” he says, rapidly. 
"‘I see it all now. It was not ray name your cousin mentioneil in 
>3er letter; it was Hanley’s. He wavS' quits devoted to her all last 
season, — her very ‘shadow,’ as she herself says. Can’t yon under- 
stand?” 

“Ijct me look,” says Dolores, cautiously, though indeed convic- 
tion has seized upon her also; and then in turn she sc^rutinizes the 
name Felicia has scribbled in her rambling writing. And in Unth 
jt might be “Harley,” or “Hanley.” it would be difficult to decide 
which. 

“How you have wronged me,” says the young man, a world of 
reproach in his tone. “Now confess that I am in the right.” 

“Yes, I suppose so; and I am quite wrong,” answers Miss Ver- 
. coldly, who hardly enjoys her defeat. 

“Dolores, surely now you owe me some reparation,” urges he, eagor- 
ly* “Consider all I have suffered ! Think how unhappy I have been !” 

“Dear me! how,late it is!” says Dolores, promptly. “I shall be 
'quite broken up to-morrow. You forget how delicate I still am. 


14 


THE WITCHING HOUR, 


Mamma would be so angry if she thought I was awake at this hour/' 

She has re^hed the door, and has opened it by this time. 

“But, Dolores — ’’ cries Prank, following. 

. “Hush!” says that young lady, mysteriously placing her finger, 
upon her lip. “Not a word* not a syllable, for your life! The 
slightest whisper might be overheard, and then they would say there 
were two ghosts instead of one.” 

Down-stairs she goes on tiptoe. But during the descent she has 
had time for reflection ; for, as she reaches her chamber-door, sh<^. 
pauses, and, with a perfect change of manner and an adorable 
smile, holds out her hand to him. 

“Good-night,” she says. 

“Under existing circumstances it is a mockery to wish me that/^ 
rejoins Harley, retaining her hand. “How can 1 find rest when, 
you are estranged from me? Say one kind word before you go.” 

“What would you have me say?” this little coquette asks, with a 
protesting air, though she suffers him to keep her hand prisoner. 

“That you will try to love me, and that you will marry me.” . 

“That would be two kind words.” 

“Well, say them. Have you forgotten? At dinner you said you 
would do anything for me if 1 succeeded in my quest.” 

“My dear Prank, consider! Would you marry a ghost? Are 
you not afraid that some day I shall vanish out of your sight?” 

“I am afraid of nothing but your indifference.” 

“What a romantic situation!” says Dolores, laughing softly. 
“Unlimited moonlight, a proposal, a stalwart knight, a fair but ■ 
harrassed maiden! I don’t believe you see a bit of it.” 

“T can see only one thing when I am looking at you.’ 

“What a charming speech! — and I adore pretty speeches when 
addressed to myself! Well, yes, then, since you will have it so. 1 
will many you — some day. And now, as a talisman against evU 
dreams, I will give you just one little kiss to carry away wffh you. 

So saying, she lays, her hands lightly upon his shoulders, ant 
turns a very pink cheek to him — after which, almost before he has. 
time to assure himself of his good fortune, she slips from his em- 
brace, and her unfriendly chamber door, closing suddenly, hides 
her from his longing eyes. 


THE END. 


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